For Reasons Unknown (5 page)

The winter months meant dark evenings, dark nights, and dark mornings. Usually the only daylight Jonathan Harkness saw was when he looked through the window of the bookshop he worked in. Any other time he was surrounded by darkness, and he loved it.

When he was away from work he was still surrounded by books. His flat was full of them. He lived on the ground floor of a small apartment block. There were two bedrooms, a large living/dining room and kitchen and bathroom. There were books in almost every room, taking up every available space.

Aunt Clara had told him the ability to read and write was important. While hiding from the agony of the murder of his parents he lost himself in fiction. While hiding from the neighbour children and the bullies at school he sought solace in fiction. Eventually books became an obsession and he spent every waking moment reading.

His biggest passion was crime fiction. In his living room, the large back wall was lined from top to bottom with purpose-built shelves, all of them bursting with books. Hardback and paperbacks of all sizes. They were in alphabetical order and then categorized in the order they were written. He lived in his own little library.

It wasn’t long after he had moved into the flat that he ran out of space for his collection and he turned the box room into a reading room. He built shelves and bought an expensive leather wing chair. He blacked out the window to make sure no natural light would fade the colours on the spines of the book covers. This room was his haven. Every night when he finished work he would have a bite to eat, usually a sandwich, then go into his reading room – closing the door behind him, locking himself away from the outside world – and absorb himself in fantasy.

Reading the exploits of detectives such as Wexford, Jordan, Thorne, Banks, Dalziel and Pascoe, Dalgliesh, Frost, Grace, Rebus, Stanhope, Cooper and Fry, Serrailler, and Morse he was able to leave behind his own life and troubles and be somebody else.

He would read until his eyes stung with fatigue before retiring to bed and falling asleep, hopefully dreaming of his favourite detectives and not of the horror that haunted his real life.

Jonathan was a Luddite. He did not own a television or a computer. He didn’t have a mobile phone and had no interest in the Internet. He didn’t own any CDs and the only music he listened to was whatever the radio station was playing when he was woken up in the morning. His life revolved around books.

By the time Jonathan arrived home it was pitch-black and the temperature was well below freezing. He was wrapped up in a knee-length black reefer coat, had a black scarf swathed around his neck several times, and black leather gloves. He held himself rigid, his body language closed and stiff, not all due to the cold; he was always tense.

He carried two plastic bags. One contained the bare essentials from the corner shop: butter, milk, coffee, cheese, bread, and the other three paperbacks from the bookshop. Even when he had the day off, he couldn’t stay away from the place.

He opened the main door leading into the well-lit communal hallway. His neighbour directly above him, Maun Barrington, was at her post box. Her eyes lit up when she saw him and she smiled.

‘Hello Jonathan, you’re home late,’ she said.

‘I’ve not worked today, had a few things to do.’ He pulled the scarf down from around his mouth. He didn’t make eye contact and kept his head bowed. He had learned to judge who was around him without looking up and actually seeing.

Her smile dropped. ‘It’s not like you to take time off work.’ She waited, expecting him to elaborate but he didn’t. ‘It’s a cold one today isn’t it?’ she asked, desperate to keep the conversation going.

‘It certainly is,’ he said, unlocking his post box and taking out the single item of junk mail. He looked at the envelope, saw it was a circular offering him cheap broadband, and immediately tore it in half; placing it in the bin under the table.

‘I bet we’re in for a long winter, don’t you?’ Maun said looking outside into the darkness. ‘So depressing.’

Jonathan was just opening the interior door taking him to the corridor where the two ground-floor apartments were when she stopped him.

‘Jonathan, I don’t mean to intrude but…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I know tomorrow is the day of the demolition. It can’t be an easy time for you.’

‘No it’s not. Not much I can do about it though. It’s not my house.’

‘Are you going?’

He thought about it even though his mind was already made up. ‘Yes, just for a while.’

‘Would you like me to come with you?’

He gave her a feeble smile. ‘That’s nice of you to offer but no thanks.’

‘I don’t mind.’

I bet you don’t
. ‘No, honestly, it’s fine. I’m going into work straight afterwards. I just want to see it get started. I’ll only be there about ten minutes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’ He edged further into the corridor.

‘Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.’

He smiled at her once again and walked quickly away. Conversation over.

Maun Barrington was in her early sixties. She was a widow and had been for almost twenty years. She and Jonathan were very alike; neither had any family and no friends to speak of. The only difference was Maun wanted people around her whereas Jonathan didn’t. She liked Jonathan. She was happy to have him in her life. Nobody else in the building acknowledged her and she looked forward to her conversations with him. She wished he would stay for longer chats, or accept the many invitations to dinner in her flat that she offered.

As Jonathan left she went upstairs into her own home and closed the front door behind her. The layout to her flat was identical to Jonathan’s. She stood in the hallway in silence and listened intently. She heard footsteps coming from below. Jonathan was moving into the kitchen. She went into her kitchen. She heard the sound of running water; he was probably washing his hands. She washed her hands.

From the kitchen, Jonathan made his way into the living room and turned on the fire. He then went into every room and closed the curtains. Upstairs, Maun copied his movements.

It was a strange sensation arriving home to a cold, empty house but it was something Matilda would have to get used to.

She switched on the lights in the living room and kitchen and poured herself a large glass of vodka from the freezer. Next to the kettle were her tablets. She popped two antidepressants from their blister pack and swallowed them with a mouthful of alcohol. She followed that with two herbal mood lifters she’d bought. Neither seemed to be working. She went into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. She was living in a four-bedroom house all on her own. It was far too big, but her husband had bought this place for them to grow old in. He designed the interior, drew up the plans for the attic conversion and the conservatory. Everything had his mark, his personality on it. She couldn’t leave here.

Without putting the glass down she struggled to pull the files and photographs out of her bag and slapped them onto the coffee table. She would read through them and make notes until she couldn’t keep her eyes open, then force herself to go to bed. At least she wouldn’t be thinking of James and the heartache of losing him.

On the mantelpiece was a silver-framed photograph of her and James on their wedding day. He looked very handsome in his dark grey suit. His brilliant smile lit up his face and he had the warm blue eyes of a young Paul Newman. He had a few laughter lines but they added character. He was gorgeous. There was no other word for it. Next to him was the grinning Matilda in a floor-length white dress. It was a simple yet elegant design. She held onto her husband and beamed into the camera. She was happy. They were both happy.

Now the life had gone out of Matilda. Her skin was grey and her hair lifeless. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled like that. She looked up at the photograph and her whole body ached. She missed him so much.

Her body was lethargic but she had work to do. She lifted herself up The files and photographs she’d taken out of her bag were mingled together into a confused mess on the coffee table. How apt, she thought. The whole case was a mess, her head was a mess.

Pushing aside the files, she found Charlie Johnson’s book and opened it at random. She leaned back on the sofa and read aloud. As long as she couldn’t hear the sound of the ticking clock she wouldn’t feel quite so alone.

‘
Chapter six: Brotherly Love?
’ She looked at her wedding photo once again as if she was reading to her dead husband. ‘
The age gap between Matthew and Jonathan was obviously problematic. According to neighbours, the brothers rarely interacted and were never seen together. The Harkness parents were busy with their successful careers, and, although they had a nanny when Matthew was growing up, there wasn’t one for Jonathan.

‘
Jonathan was often left with neighbours after school if his parents were working late or was enrolled in several after-school clubs. During the school holidays he was anywhere but at home. Just how much input did Stefan and Miranda have in Jonathan’s upbringing?

‘
Neighbour Aoife Quinn, although a close friend of the Harkness family, did not leap to the defence of Stefan and Miranda when the subject of their parenting skills was brought up. “They were a brilliant couple, hardworking and totally dedicated to their careers. However, I think having Jonathan was a mistake. Miranda never said as much, but reading between the lines, he was an accident, and an abortion would not have looked good for her career.”

‘I wonder if Jonathan has read this,’ Matilda asked aloud. ‘I bloody hope not. Imagine reading that you were a mistake. Poor sod.’

She poured herself another glass of vodka and downed the double shot in one gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sniffled. She was crying. She wasn’t crying for her husband though, she was crying for Jonathan Harkness; a man she was yet to meet, yet a man she had a great deal of sadness for.

Despite never wanting children, for a split second, as she looked into her husband’s beaming face, she wondered what they would have been like as parents. She had never considered herself maternal, but if she had known James was going to die after five years of marriage she would have spent her whole married life pregnant, making sure she had something of him to cherish.

Bloody hell! Was everything going to bring her back to James and her sad pathetic excuse for a life? She flicked through the paperback and stopped at a different section.

‘
Chapter Eight: Alternative Theories
,’ she began again. ‘
Despite Stefan Harkness being a leading authority in cancer drug trials in the western world his work often came under close scrutiny and caused a great deal of controversy. By the time he was thirty he had already been before three government select committees to justify his work.

‘
At the time of his death in December 1994, news of his current work was well known in the scientific field and by interested parties. The fact he was testing on animals was no secret and he had received threats to halt his work or “suffer the consequences of your deplorable actions” as one rather prosaic letter written in pig’s blood said.

‘
In the weeks leading up to his death Stefan Harkness had received abusive phone calls, anonymous letters, and a box containing the rotting corpses of three dozen mice was delivered to the house addressed to the Harkness children. Despite extensive investigations by South Yorkshire Police none of the activists, who eventually held up their hands to sending the hateful mail, were considered credible suspects for the double murder.
’

Matilda put the book face down on the sofa next to her and looked up at the wedding photo. ‘Well we knew that didn’t we James? This Charlie Johnson bloke certainly seems to be a font of knowledge. I wonder who his source was.’

Should she read on or have another drink of vodka? She looked from the bottle to the book and back again. The alcohol won.

Jonathan Harkness sat in his reading room. He was rereading
On Beulah Height
by Reginald Hill for the third time. He was just over halfway through.

Next to him on the small table was a large mug of tea – milk with one sugar – and two digestive biscuits on a square of kitchen roll. He had been reading for over two hours.

The door to the room was closed and the only light came from the thin standard lamp, which was behind the wing chair and loomed over him.

When he came to the end of the chapter he looked up at the mass of books that surrounded him. He was content here. He was safe in this room. In reality his mind was diseased, and forever tortured him with paranoia and depressive thoughts, but in this room he was safe. He could live the life of the characters, interact with them, help Dalziel and Pascoe solve the crime. His lips spread into a smile and then he returned to the paperback and continued reading.

Directly above, Maun Barrington was rereading a story in the local newspaper. It had arrived at lunchtime. She was shocked by the amount of space the paper had given to the story, surely it didn’t warrant a whole page – it was just a house being demolished.

She went over the conversation she’d had with Jonathan in the foyer a couple of hours ago. He couldn’t wait to get away from her. Why? She shrugged off her pointless reverie. He was bound to have a lot on his mind with tomorrow’s events. She was still puzzled as to why he didn’t want her going with him. He always sought her advice.

She decided to attend anyway, keep out of sight so Jonathan didn’t see her. She wanted to be there. She wanted to see his emotions; the agony, the relief, the heartache and the horror so she could be there for him later when he came home from work. She had a strange unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach that something was going to happen. Change was coming. Whatever it was, she hoped she wouldn’t lose Jonathan because of it. She couldn’t cope with losing anyone else.