by Michael Wood
‘Oh God.’ Matilda put her head down in shame. ‘I never used to touch vodka, except as a mixer, now I’m taking it neat straight from the bottle.’
‘Not any more. I found your three bottles in the freezer and I’ve emptied them down the sink.’ Nothing needed to be said. Matilda proffered a small smile of thanks. ‘You need to take your medication regularly too. According to the packet, from the date you had the prescription filled you should have eight tablets left; you’ve got twenty-three. Also, try eating too. Having regular healthy meals will help your energy levels.’
‘I know. I’m really sorry. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you Adele.’
‘Well, as Christmas is just around the corner, keep in mind that I like diamonds.’
Chapter 39
Jonathan had slept longer than Matilda. By the time he woke it was daylight. He pushed the duvet back and swung his pale spindly legs out of the bed. His head felt fuzzy; the aftermath of a much-needed deep sleep. He felt as if he’d been in a coma for a week.
In the living room Maun was sitting in an armchair reading the local newspaper. She heard shuffling feet behind her and turned to face him.
‘Good morning sleepyhead. How do you feel?’ She smiled at him.
He returned her smile. ‘I’m not sure yet. I feel a bit light-headed.’
‘I’m not surprised. You’ve been asleep for almost a full day. Do you want something to eat?’
‘Not at the moment. I’d love a coffee though.’
‘Come and sit down. I’ll make you a drink.’
Jonathan was suddenly cold. He had spent the last twenty-four hours wrapped comfortably in a thick feather duvet. Now his arms and legs were exposed to the daytime temperatures and judging by the thick layer of frost outside it was well below freezing. He looked across at the newspaper Maun had left on her chair. It was folded in half so he couldn’t see the headline but he recognized the photograph of his childhood home. He wondered what had been happening while he had been sleeping.
Maun brought a black coffee for him in a large mug. He wrapped both hands around it firmly to warm up and took several lingering sniffs of the hot drink. He took a sip and felt the hot liquid race through his body. He was beginning to thaw.
‘Stephen’s dead,’ he said without looking up.
‘I know. That detective, DS Mills, told me yesterday. I’m so sorry Jonathan. I know how much you liked him.’
‘A hit-and-run. A car just came out of nowhere and killed him. One minute he was walking along and the next he was dead. How does that happen?’
‘I don’t know. Life is very fragile. We take it for granted sometimes.’
‘Oh my God, his family,’ he burst out. ‘Who’s going to tell his family?’
‘DS Mills said they’ve been in contact with the local police in Dublin and they’re going to send someone to break the news. Don’t worry about anything Jonathan; it’s all being taken care of.’
‘I can’t believe this is happening to me. All my life I’ve tried to stay in the background; go to work, come home again, and not bother anyone. Why can’t I just be left alone? If Stephen hadn’t tried to befriend me, he’d still be alive. I told him this would happen. Why did he have to get involved?’
‘I wish I knew the answer Jonathan I really do. Unfortunately there are some sick people out there who get their kicks out of harming others.’ She looked at him carefully over the top of her coffee mug.
‘I’m going to have to move,’ he blurted out.
‘What?’
‘I can’t stay here. I should never have come back to Sheffield in the first place. I was foolish to think I could. Now it’s all tainted. It’s death and destruction wherever you look.’
‘You can’t move,’ her voice had changed. She sounded upset.
‘I’ve got no choice. My home is not going to feel like my home any more. Did the scene of crime people come?’
‘Yes. They were here a while and left around early evening.’
‘Did they say anything?’
‘Not to me, no.’
‘Have you been in?’
‘No.’
‘I bet they’ve made a mess; fingerprint dust everywhere, drawers left open and things tipped out. I bet they’ve moved my books too.’ The thought of strangers going through his personal possessions made him feel sick. He felt the prickly sensation climb up the back of his neck. Unconsciously, he started rocking slightly, back and forth. ‘They’ve been in my flat with their shoes and touched everything. I can’t go back living there. I can’t.’
‘Jonathan, calm down.’
She leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on his lap but he recoiled from her touch.
‘We’ll get your flat sorted out. We’ll redecorate, get some new furniture. It’ll look like a completely different place when we’ve finished.’
‘No. That’s not going to work. I need to go. I need to make a fresh start.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t care. Anywhere. I’ll give head office a ring, explain everything and see if they’ll transfer me to another store, maybe Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
‘Or Wales, I don’t know. I just have to leave this place.’
Chapter 40
Before leaving for work Matilda had another shower. Adele had left an hour before, making sure her friend was well enough and giving her a long and tight embrace. She made Matilda promise to call her often and give her a progress report, which she agreed to. While in the shower, Matilda cried, the hot shower washing the tears away. If it wasn’t for Adele, she honestly believed she would have taken her own life by now. Everybody deserved to have an Adele in their life.
As she pulled into the car park, she passed Hales’s Audi and, for the first time, she didn’t want to snap off a wing mirror and throw it through the windscreen.
If it was possible it seemed to be getting colder. Matilda felt the bitter wind cut through her as she climbed out of the car. She pulled her jacket tight around her and realized she didn’t have a winter coat that fitted her. She would have to go shopping at the first opportunity, especially if this winter was going to be as harsh as predicted.
Matilda smiled to herself. She must be feeling better if her mind was turning away from the case, Ben Hales, and the plight of Jonathan Harkness, to having a wander around the shops for a winter coat. What would it be next; new furniture for the conservatory, a new car, a walking holiday in Cornwall?
She made her way to the back entrance of the police station with her head held high and an inner smile. The permanent aching in her shoulders from where she held herself rigid with tension and fear was gone. Maybe she had turned a corner. Maybe Matilda Darke was on her way back.
The mobile phone she struggled to get to grips with rang in her pocket. It was Adele.
‘You’d better not be checking up on me,’ Matilda said with humour in her voice.
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t do a thing like that. You are at work though aren’t you?’
‘Yes I am. I’ve just arrived.’
‘Good. I did have a genuine reason for calling; it’s not long until Christmas. Now, before you say anything I know you’ll probably want to forget all about it this year and work all the way through, and that’s fine, however, for Christmas lunch I want you here with me and Chris. No questions, do you understand?’
‘How do you know I haven’t made plans?’ Matilda joked. ‘I may have decided to spend the day with my adoring family.’
‘And I may find Benedict Cumberbatch under my tree on Christmas morning.’
‘Fine. You win.’
‘I always do. Have a good day.’
There was no way Matilda would enjoy Christmas to its full potential this year. It didn’t matter what she did, she would be comparing it to her last one with James. However, the thought of having Christmas lunch with Adele and Chris cheered her up slightly.
I can do this. I can bloody do this.
Chapter 41
Maun could perfectly understand Jonathan’s decision to leave. In his position, she would be saying exactly the same things, but from her point of view, she wanted him to stay. She needed him to stay. She would do everything in her power to keep him here. Jonathan leaving Sheffield was not a possibility.
Maun had convinced Jonathan he should eat something and was in the kitchen rapidly making sandwiches of various fillings. She had been thrilled yesterday when DS Mills had contacted her, asking if Jonathan could stay at her place. She didn’t need to think of an answer. He finally needed her. When the call had ended, Maun had dashed about, tidied up, and quickly vacuumed the spare bedroom. Jonathan would feel safe and comfortable here. She’d make sure of it. Now, he was planning to leave Sheffield. Her mind raced with scenarios in which she convinced Jonathan to stay in Sheffield. She couldn’t risk him leaving and being on her own. What would she turn into?
‘He can’t go,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘He can’t. I won’t allow it. He’s not leaving.’ She cut her finger while slicing a cucumber. ‘Shit!’ The stainless-steel blade had made a perfectly neat cut. Blood began to pour out and she quickly made her way over to the sink. Despite the pain her mind was still on Jonathan’s revelation.
In the living room, Jonathan was getting comfortable in the armchair. He was warming up nicely and felt himself relax. He thought about Stephen, of what he had said on their last meeting. Why hadn’t he suggested they go for something to eat and talk things over? Why had he decided to go home? Yes it had been late but did it matter if he’d been late for work the following morning; Stephen was the manager after all.
Jonathan felt tears roll down his face. He found this feeling strange. He had always been careful about displaying emotions and preferred to keep everything to himself. Since the case of his parents’ murder had been reopened he had been feeling more tearful, more fragile, more afraid.
‘Maun, do you have any tissues?’ he called out to her, hoping his voice didn’t give his sadness away.
‘On the sideboard. If the box is empty there’s another in the cupboard.’
The box on the sideboard was indeed empty. He bent down and opened the cupboard door. This was obviously Maun’s knick-knack cupboard; a place where things were put away that didn’t have a designated area. He had to hunt for the tissues, moving a shoe box full of odds and ends to one side and lifting out a red leather scrapbook, the front of which had ‘Memory Lane’ written on it in gold copperplate. The book was full and heavy. He lifted it up and placed it on top of the sideboard. He knew he shouldn’t look inside and invade Maun’s privacy but he couldn’t help himself. He opened it at random.
The first few pages were taken up with old photographs from Maun’s wedding. He had never seen these pictures before. She was a very beautiful woman in her youth, in a classical Jane Austen way. Her husband stood proud next to her, head held high, and an almost smug smile on his lips; he had just married the most beautiful woman in the world.
Maun was wearing an elegant, simply designed, floor-length wedding dress, while her husband Peter wore a traditional grey morning suit. They looked happy and in love.
The following pages contained holiday snaps of the happy couple, probably from the honeymoon. It looked hot and exotic. He wondered why Maun had kept these after the marriage had ended so painfully for her. Eventually, the photographs stopped and were replaced with newspaper cuttings. At first these were stories of achievements her husband had made in the business world; land he had acquired, homes he had built, run-down areas of Sheffield he had developed into prime locations for families to live in. He had obviously worked hard to build up a business empire. Maun must have felt immense pride.
Unfortunately, the good news stories didn’t last for long and eventually the press started to write about the Barringtons’ private life and rumours of his affairs were obviously more interesting that his latest property development.
Jonathan didn’t need to read the stories to find out what the trouble was; the headlines alone were bitter and scathing enough to enlighten him in the Barrington problems: BARRINGTON LEAVES BUSINESS AWARDS WITH 18YO; PROPERTY DEVELOPER’S HOMES DON’T REACH BRITISH STANDARD; BARRINGTON HOMES IN CITY COUNCIL BRIBE; DIRTY TRICKS OF BARRINGTON LAND PURCHASING; BARRINGTON MISTRESS IN KISS AND TELL.
Jonathan stopped to read one story. It didn’t carry much detail and it was obvious the story had only broken as the newspaper was going to print.
BUSINESSMAN KILLED IN CAR PLUNGE
Property magnate Peter Barrington has been killed in a freak car accident.
Police were called to Snake Pass, the A57, between Glossop and the Ladybower Reservoir early this morning. According to a police source, no other car was involved in the incident. An investigation into the cause of the crash is underway.Mr Barrington’s wife, Maun, has been informed and is currently being looked after by neighbours.
In a brief statement from Barrington Homes and Development, chief executive Justine Clement-Hill said, ‘It is a complete tragedy that Mr Barrington has been killed and we are all grieving. Our thoughts are with his wife Maun and we offer our sympathies.’
Further stories followed from the local press: speculation as to the cause of the crash, who his mystery passenger was, why there were two overnight bags in the boot when Peter Barrington was only going to Manchester to sign a contract. Then, what must have been agony for Maun, the story of her husband’s secretary, travelling with Peter and killed along with him, was three months pregnant with his baby. Jonathan immediately felt sympathy for Maun; hearing the news of her husband’s betrayal must have been like a slap in the face.
Maun had never been able to have children and had told him that not becoming a mother was the biggest tragedy in her life. To be faced with news that Peter’s secretary, twenty-seven years his junior, was having his child, must have been heart-breaking to say the least.
The following pages of the scrapbook continued with the story of Peter’s death, including an interview with the secretary’s mother who fed a platter of lies to the press about how her daughter was the only woman ever to make Peter happy and how Maun had constantly ground him down over the years. Jonathan wondered how many times Maun had read these stories; each word must have been like a knife in the heart. People would read it and they would believe it. Suddenly, Maun was the villain of the story.
When there were no more revelations left the press moved on. The final story Maun had saved was about her husband’s burial.
Turning another page, Jonathan staggered back as he saw a headline that broke the news of the murder of his own parents twenty years before. As far as he was aware, Maun had no previous connection with his family. He thought they had been total strangers when they first met on his return to Sheffield.
The Harkness murders gained plenty of press attention, mainly because the key witness was an eleven-year-old boy who had seen his parents brutally murdered. The following pages in Maun’s scrapbook contained story after story covering the case, from different newspapers, covering the same angle. Jonathan flicked through the pages with wide-eyed horror. It was as if Maun was obsessed with the case, but why? Who was she to the Harkness family?
The sound of a cup being dropped and smashing in the kitchen brought Jonathan back from his reverie. He suddenly remembered where he was. He flicked to the back of the book, to see what the final entry was. At first he couldn’t make sense of the carbon-print receipt he was looking at. Why would Maun hang on to a car-hire receipt? His eyes widened and it all fitted into place. Maun had recently hired a car with the registration number YS08 DPT. That registration number was emblazoned on his memory and would be until the day he died. It was the car that had killed Stephen, which had shattered any illusion of a normal life, which had reversed and almost killed him.
Maun pushed the living-room door open and entered backwards. She was carrying a large wooden tray she had spent plenty of time preparing; two side plates full wi
th tiny crustless sandwiches, a large white teapot, steam rising from the spout, and two matching cups and saucers. She had a smile on her face, a smile that stretched her skin and exposed the wrinkles she loathed. She was in her element; here was Jonathan at the height of anxiety and he had come to her for help, he had taken some coaxing, but he was here. That was a start. She just had to make sure he stayed here.
As soon as she saw the red leather scrapbook in Jonathan’s hands the smile fell from her face.
The silence was intense. Maun could not take her eyes from the book and Jonathan could not take his eyes off Maun.
Suddenly it was cold and dark. The room seemed smaller and claustrophobic. For Jonathan, the heaviness of the tension enveloped him. His mind was working overtime, trying to make sense of the situation he found himself in.
For Maun, her home felt like a coffin being lowered into the ground and she was still alive inside. She could feel the pressure of the pouring earth trapping her. She wanted to scream, to shout, to kick and plead for mercy, but she knew she wouldn’t be heard.
‘Who are you?’ Jonathan shattered the heavy calm. His words bounced off the wall with all the force of a ball in a game of squash.
‘Jonathan, let me explain,’ she said as she carefully placed the tray on the coffee table. Her hands were shaking and the cups rattled. ‘They’re just newspaper cuttings, that’s all. I was…interested.’
He tore the car-hire receipt from the back of the book and held it up. ‘Explain this then.’
‘Oh my God. I…I can’t explain that. I wasn’t thinking straight. I…He was going to take you away from me.’ She said slowly. She was deflated. The wind had been knocked out of her sails.
‘What?’
‘I’m not daft Jonathan. I could see it coming. Stephen was a very clever man. He was much more subtle than I was. He was a very good shoulder for you to cry on and you took him into your confidence. Eventually he would have convinced you to put Sheffield behind you, draw a line under all this and move on, and you would have listened to him. He would have probably taken you back to Ireland with him. I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t lose…’