For Reasons Unknown

by Michael Wood

  ‘I just want you to look at it. A month, six weeks at the most.’

  ‘Is there any new evidence?’

  Valerie looked down at the file. ‘Not as such.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Matilda folded her arms. She could feel the prickling heat in the back of her neck.

  ‘Do you know the case?’

  ‘Everybody does. It’s part of Sheffield folklore.’

  ‘The house is being demolished tomorrow.’

  ‘About time.’

  ‘I had a reporter on the phone from The Star last week asking if the case was up for review.’

  ‘I’m guessing that it is now.’

  ‘Due to budget cuts we no longer have an active review board looking at resting cases. The house being demolished isn’t only going to have local interest but national too. It was a big story. I don’t want them thinking people can get away with murder in South Yorkshire.’

  ‘So it’s a PR exercise?’

  ‘Matilda, I believe this case can be solved. It may have been a long time ago but the killer is within these files. I know it. If anyone can find the killer of Stefan and Miranda Harkness, it’s you.’

  Matilda knew she was being placated. With the botched Carl Meagan kidnapping still fresh in the minds of the Sheffield people it would not look good if a DCI with a heavy cloud over her head was leading a major investigation. If, on the other hand, she could solve a well-known cold case there would be smiles all round. She reached forward for the file, but pulled her hand back quickly.

  Grafton, North, Wentworth, Petty, North and Fox.

  ‘I’ll need a DC.’

  ‘I’ll assign one to you.’

  ‘And an office to work in.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘Where’s all the evidence?’

  ‘On its way from storage. You’ll have access to everything pertaining to the Harkness case and carte blanche on interviews.’

  Matilda rolled her eyes. The files were on their way. The decision had already been made. She began to wonder if this was the beginning of the end for her. Did anyone want to work with her any more? ‘What if I can’t solve it?’

  ‘I have faith in you.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘Then it remains a cold case.’

  ‘Will I be able to return to the murder team when all this is over?’

  ‘That will be reviewed at the time.’

  She could feel a tension headache coming on. The impulse to throw her ID on the table and resign was bubbling up inside her, almost at eruption level.

  ‘Are you still seeing Dr Warminster?’ Valerie asked when she saw the DCI chewing her bottom lip.

  ‘I have no choice in the matter. A bit like the situation here.’

  ‘Matilda, a great deal has changed in this past year. Work on this case, keep seeing Dr Warminster, and everyone will be happy.’

  ‘Everyone except me.’

  ‘Did you honestly think you’d be able to return to front-line duty as if nothing had happened?’

  ‘Yes I did. A review panel cleared me of any wrongdoing. I should be able to pick up where I left off.’

  ‘And you will. This is the final hurdle. Look, South Yorkshire Police isn’t exactly going through the best of times at the moment; the Hillsborough Inquiry and the child abuse scandal in Rotherham are just two major headaches I have to contend with. I cannot be seen to have you return to front-line work as if nothing’s happened.’

  Grudgingly, Matilda picked up the file. She feared that the second her fingers gripped the folder there would be no going back.

  ‘There’s one more stipulation…’ Valerie began.

  Of course there is.

  ‘Dr Warminster has recommended reduced working hours.’

  Matilda didn’t say anything. She was already being stripped of her powers, her role within the force taken away from her, segregated from her colleagues; anything else they added was out of her control and not worth fighting over. This was a battle she was not going to win.

  ‘You’re not to start work before 9 a.m. and you’re to be out of the station by 4 p.m. Is that understood?’

  Matilda rose from her seat clutching the cold-case file firmly to her chest. ‘That’s fine,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll be able to get home in time for my game shows.’

  She turned on her heels and swiftly left the room. She wanted to slam the door, but would wait until she arrived home, and, at the top of her voice, would scream into a pillow from the pit of her lungs – another stress-relieving exercise from the two-faced harpy Dr Warminster.

  Chapter 2

  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.
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br />   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.

  Chapter 3

  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.

  INTRODUCTION

  The British police force is one of the finest, and most respected, in the world boasting an array of dedicated detectives who will stop at nothing until they find their culprit. Unfortunately, there are times when a case can go cold, the killer goes to ground, and justice for the victim is trapped in a state of limbo.

  One crime which shook the nation in the 1990s was the case of the Harkness killings at Christmastime. A hard-working husband and wife were brutally slain while their youngest child was forced to look on in horror. What happened on that fateful night has never been fully revealed…until now.Featuring lengthy interviews with witnesses, family, friends, and neighbours, A Christmas Killing will throw a new light on the case and…

  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?