For Reasons Unknown (2 page)

The detached five-bedroom house in Whirlow sat in its own grounds. It was set back from a main road, and a boundary of neatly trimmed evergreens sheltered it from view. A gravel driveway forked off; one way leading to a double front door, the other to a detached garage, which sat proudly next to the house. Made of classic red brick in the Victorian era, it also included two impressive chimney stacks, and large windows.

A house and grounds of this age needed regular attention to remain looking grand. Unfortunately, nothing had been tended in over twenty years. The evergreens had been left to wild abandon, the branches drooped lifelessly, and the once brilliant green was now dull.

The garden was overgrown, the driveway almost hidden under weeds and brown leaves. The house itself was dead. Windows had been smashed and boarded up with cheap plywood. One chimney had collapsed, and the lead stolen from the roof, which had very few tiles remaining. The garage door was covered in graffiti.

A strong wooden fence surrounded the entire plot. Crudely attached stickers informed passers-by that the house was due for demolition. The once grand building was now an eyesore to everyone in the neighbourhood, and had a knock-on effect to selling prices of nearby properties.

Towards the back of the plot there was a gap between the last fence panel and the evergreens. It was a tight squeeze, but just manageable for someone thin enough to wriggle through without being seen from the main road.

Once through, the man dressed in black dusted himself off and stood up to look at the house. It was pathetic and sad to see such a wonderful building fall into a state of decay.

There wasn’t much to see; the downstairs windows were all boarded up. The padlock on the sheet of plywood covering the back door was rusted and didn’t take much striking from a rock to break it. He pushed open the door and entered.

The back door led straight into the kitchen, once the heart of the family home. It was dark and had the bitter smell of death. Cobwebs hung from the walls and light fittings, and a thick film of dust covered every surface. The kitchen had all the mod cons a wealthy family could wish for, though everything was now dated. The food processor was the size of a microwave oven. A yellowed salad spinner sat on the work surface next to the cooker. Did people still use salad spinners?

The man went through the kitchen into the large hallway. A sweeping staircase with ornate wood panelling led up to the first floor. The stairs looked warped. He wasn’t sure if he should risk climbing them.

He went through to the living room and was surprised to find the furniture still there. He could understand burglars not taking the relic kitchen implements, but he thought someone would have made use of the corner suite and even the bulky television set. He smiled at the memories the room brought back and sat down on the seat he had graced as a child. It was closest to the television so he could watch his favourite programmes without being disturbed by someone passing the screen and blocking his view.

The dining room was a sad sight. The unit that housed the best crockery had been pulled off the wall, all the plates smashed on the floor. He bent down and picked up a jagged piece. He wiped the dust from it and smiled at the pink flowery pattern. His mum loved this dinner service. It was only to be used on special occasions; Christmas, birthdays, and big family dinners. Probably kids had broken in and smashed it, not caring about the sentimental value.

From the hallway he looked up the stairs. He was tempted to ascend, despite how unstable they looked, but was frightened about what he would see. If the kitchen had been left in the state it was on the final night someone was living here, what would the bedrooms be like? Did the police clean up after a crime or would the walls be covered in dried blood, carpet matted with the leaked insides of its occupants, and bodily fluids allowed to dry and disintegrate into the very soul of the house?

The memory of what happened on the first floor angered him. It all came flooding back. He no longer wanted to go upstairs. He wanted to leave this place. He should never have come back.

He quickly left, slamming the back door behind him and securing the plywood back into position. Nobody would care that a padlock had been broken. He looked at his shaking hands, they were covered in dust. It was in his hair, up his nose, and in his mouth. He could taste the decay, the mould and the decomposition, not only of the building but of the people who had once lived inside.

Everything had already been set out for Matilda; a room allocated and the dusty Harkness files brought out of storage.

The office was no bigger than one of the holding cells in the bowels of the police station. Behind the door was an old mop and metal bucket, long since abandoned. The room had a pungent smell of damp. The only window was covered with a yellowed venetian blind, each metal slat caked in years’ worth of dust.

She went around the desk, briefly glancing down at the files, and pulled at the cord. It was brittle and snapped in her hands; the blind was staying shut. There would be no natural light in here. The only light came from the bare sixty watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. If there was ever a room to tip a depressive DCI over the edge, this was definitely it.

Matilda turned her back on the window and took in the room, which would be her place of work for the next four to six weeks.

‘Welcome back Matilda,’ she said to herself, ‘we’ve really missed you.’

She looked at the faded labels on the folders neatly placed on what was her new desk; witness statements, forensic reports, crime-scene photos, police reports – it was all here: everything she needed to know about the Harkness case. She reached out for one, but her hand stopped short of picking it up. What was this mental block she had all of a sudden?

There was a box file on the corner of her desk. She leaned forward and quickly flung back the lid. It was practically empty apart from a thick paperback book. Frowning, she lifted it out and studied it. The pages had yellowed with age and it had obviously been well thumbed before being archived. The cover, although faded, was an image of a crime scene: the slumped body of a naked woman lying face down on a crumpled bed surrounded by splashes of blood. Matilda knew straight away what this was:
A Christmas Killing
by Charlie Johnson was the ‘definitive true account of Britain’s most brutal unsolved crime’, according to the blurb.

She briefly remembered the book being released in the late 1990s but had never read it. She tried to avoid true-crime books wherever possible.

According to the first page, Charlie Johnson was one of Britain’s leading crime writers, having worked on several national newspapers in a career spanning two decades. Apparently he had covered many of Britain’s shocking crimes for national and international media. Matilda wondered if Charlie Johnson had actually written his biography himself. There was no author photograph, but she pictured him having small piggy eyes and a permanent smug smile that could only be removed by a sharp slap.

Matilda’s reading was interrupted by her mobile phone ringing. She was thankful of the interruption. The introduction, written like he was a fly on the wall at the time of the killings, was vomit-inducing.

‘Good morning DCI Darke. How does it feel to be back in the saddle?’ The cheery caller was Adele Kean, the duty pathologist and Matilda’s best friend.

Adele’s breezy tone was infectious and Matilda found herself smiling for the first time. ‘I’m not back in the saddle unfortunately. You could say I’m in the side car.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Matilda leaned back carefully in her wooden chair, hoping it wasn’t as brittle as the blind. ‘Apparently I’m not to be trusted. I have to prove myself again before I’m allowed to play with the big boys.’

‘Oh Matilda. I’m so sorry. We did wonder whether this would happen didn’t we? I suppose it’s not come as too great a shock.’

‘No, I suppose not. I’m not even allowed to sit with the big boys. I’ve been given a grotty little office no bigger than a cupboard under the stairs.’

‘Well if it’s anything like the cupboard under my stairs the cat usually puts her finds there. Be on the lookout for dead sparrows.’

‘Judging by the smell I think there may be a dead albatross in here somewhere.’

‘Is everyone pleased to have you back?’

‘I’ve not seen anyone. It’s like they’re keeping out of my way. I don’t know what they think I’m going to do to them. I’ve had a meeting with the ACC. She’s given me a project to keep me out of trouble.’

‘What?’

‘Apparently I have to pass a test before I can move on to the next level. I’ve been given a cold case to solve,’ she said, lifting up the cover of the first file and taking a look at the top sheet.

‘Well, you do enjoy a puzzle.’

‘A puzzle I can solve. This isn’t a cold case, it’s frozen solid. It’s its own little ice age.’

‘What’s the case?’

‘The Harkness murders.’

‘Bloody hell. Well, anything you want to run by me give me a holler. I don’t mind playing Jessica Fletcher.’

‘I’ll remember that when I’m tearing my hair out. Did you know the house is being demolished tomorrow?’

‘Is it? Well I’m not surprised. It’s stood empty for years, even Dracula would apply for rehousing if he lived in there.’

Matilda laughed and felt herself relaxing.

‘It’s good to hear you laugh, Mat. Fancy meeting for lunch? Panini on me.’

‘Yes OK. I’d like that. I’m not sure what time I’ll be free though.’

‘That’s OK. I’m off today. Give me a call.’

Matilda promised that she would, said goodbye, and hung up. She realized she was still smiling and had an air of confidence about her. This always happened in Adele’s company. Her positivity was as infectious as a baby’s giggle. Adele should be bottled and issued on the NHS to people with depression.

A knock on the door brought Matilda back to reality. She looked around at the drab office and felt her stomach somersault. How was it possible her mood could leap up and down so rapidly? She made a mental note to bring her antidepressants tomorrow.

She called for her visitor to enter, but her mouth was dry. She cleared her throat a couple of times and tried again.

The door opened a small amount, the hinges creaking loudly. A head peered around the door. It was DS Sian Mills.

‘Hello, I heard you were back,’ her voice was soft, almost timid, as if talking to a patient who had just woken from major surgery.

Matilda was not sure she had the strength for this. All the old familiar faces she had seen, known, and worked with would hunt her out one by one to have the same welcome-back conversation. Some would be genuine, Sian in particular, others would be more perverse. They would want to see the state she was in, and get the gory details of her absence. Matilda suddenly realized she was the human equivalent of a car crash.

She took a deep breath. ‘Sian, good to see you. Come on in.’

‘Welcome back Mats. You’ve been missed. You really have.’

‘Thank you. I like your hair.’

‘Thanks. I wasn’t sure at first. I thought it made me look like a twelve-year-old boy. Stuart likes it though.’ She ran her hand around the back of her neck. ‘You’re looking…well,’ she said for want of a better word. She tried not to stare too much at the woman who was, in effect, still her boss. It was difficult, however, not to notice such a drastic change in her appearance.

‘Thanks. I feel well.’ Would the lies this morning never stop?

‘I didn’t realize you were coming back today. If I’d known I’d have made some muffins or got you a card.’

‘That’s really sweet but I don’t want a fuss.’

‘No. Of course not. You’re right. Start as you mean to go on and all that,’ she half laughed.

‘Something like that.’ She gave a weak smile and glanced at the Harkness files.

‘You’ll have to come up to the Murder Room, see us all, have a coffee.’

‘I will. Maybe a bit later.’ Another lie.

‘How about lunch? We can catch up. Did I tell you Stuart’s father died? He’s only left us his boat. Can you believe that? What are we supposed to do with a boat in Sheffield?’

‘Some other time perhaps. I’ve got plans this lunchtime.’

‘Oh. OK. No problem. I understand. Well, let me know when.’

‘Will do.’

‘Well I’d better be going.’ She made her way to the doorway. ‘It really is great to have you back.’

Matilda offered a painful smile as a farewell. Any words would have choked her.

As soon as Sian left the room, closing the door behind her, Matilda felt her body begin to relax once more. She had been tense throughout the conversation. Why should she feel on edge around Sian? She had known her for years, worked with her on many investigations, cried and ranted at the state of the judicial system when a killer went free, and had a few too many Martinis together at Christmas parties. If she couldn’t relax around a friend, how was she going to react around others she considered to be mere colleagues?

Pitt the Younger, Addington, Pitt the Younger, Grenville, Cavendish-Bentinck.

Maybe she had returned to work too early, but then how much longer could she keep putting it off? Surely nine months was more than enough.

She shook her head as if dispelling the dark thoughts, and busied herself with the evidence boxes scattered around the room. She lifted one up, expecting it to be heavy, but was surprised by how light it was, and placed it on her desk. She removed the lid tentatively and peered inside. There was only one item in it: sealed in an evidence bag was the neatly folded white shirt belonging to a small boy. Standing out against the pure white cotton material, pools of dried blood covered the front.

Matilda reached in and lifted it out. She held it firmly in both hands. Searching back in her memory twenty years, she briefly remembered eleven-year-old Jonathan Harkness being found alone at the crime scene. How long had he been there? Had he been present in the room as his parents were butchered in front of him? If so, why hadn’t the killer turned on him too? Respectfully, she gently placed the shirt back in the box and returned the lid.

Another knock at the door brought her back from her reverie. She sniffled and realized she was on the brink of tears, clearly from the effects of the bloodied shirt belonging to an innocent child mixed with her already fragile emotional state. Maybe she would feel better once she started on the case properly.

‘Come in.’

This time the door breezed open and in bounded DC Rory Fleming like Tigger on Ecstasy.

‘Rory, good to see you. What can I do for you?’ She tried to sound jolly but it came out rather laboured.

‘I’ve been assigned to you ma’am, for the Harkness case.’

‘Oh right. Well come on in. Have a seat, if you can find room.’

He shut the door and sat on the hard wooden seat on the opposite side of the desk. They eyed each other up in painful silence.

‘So, are you pleased to be back?’

‘Right,’ she began, slapping her hands on the desk, ‘let’s get things settled before we begin. Firstly, you don’t need to treat me like I’m made of glass. I’m not going to break. Secondly, you don’t have to be careful about what you say. There’s bound to be some mention of missing children or kidnapping at some point, and while it will bring back memories, they’re my memories and not yours, so don’t worry. Thirdly, the length of time I was off was due to personal reasons, which have no effect on my work, so you don’t need to know about them. Is that all right?’

Rory looked taken aback by the speech. He nodded as if summing it up. ‘That’s fine by me,’ he gave a pained smile.

‘Good. So, how are things with you?’

‘No offence but that’s a personal matter, which has no effect on my work, so you don’t need to know about that.’

Matilda threw her head back and gave out a natural laugh straight from the pit of her stomach. Yes, she definitely had made the right decision to return to work.