For Reasons Unknown (22 page)

‘What’s his background?’

‘He’s a journalist.’

Matilda waited for the agent to continue and was surprised when she didn’t. ‘Is that it?’

‘Charlie is an extremely private person. I know he grew up in the north-west. According to his CV he worked on a local newspaper straight after leaving school as an apprentice and they put him through further education. He moved around from paper to paper in the north before eventually moving down here. I think he worked freelance for a few nationals.’

‘And privately?’

‘He’s not married and doesn’t have any children. I get the impression he’s a bit of a loner.’

Matilda was starting to hate the word loner; it was a horrible word to describe someone. ‘Why did he get so interested in the Harkness killings?’

‘Now that, I’ve absolutely no idea. He pitched the book to me several times. To be honest the first draft of his book was very poorly written. His second wasn’t much better, but it was his enthusiasm and his attention to detail that convinced me to take him on as a client. After two more drafts I eventually got someone to completely rewrite it.’

‘Didn’t he mind?’

‘No. He did all the hard work; it just needed putting into some kind of order. His name still appeared on the front and it’s sold very well. It won the non-fiction dagger at the Crime Writers’ Association Awards in 1999. I still have the photo of him holding his award on the wall.’

‘Can you keep trying to get hold of him for me? It really is important that I speak to him.’

‘I will try.’

‘Thank you. Oh, by the way, could you email me that photo of Charlie?’

Matilda gave the agent her email address and hung up. She was still in the dark about Charlie and his obsession with the Harkness case and why he felt qualified to write a psychiatric report on him. She suddenly felt very tired and in urgent need of some fresh air. She rose from behind the desk and pulled her jacket from the back of the chair. She called Rory over. ‘You and I are going to get this sorted once and for all.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To see a real expert.’

Former Detective Inspector Pat Campbell lived in the leafy suburb of Bradway on the edge of the steel city and on the border with the Derbyshire countryside. One leap over the garden fence and you would actually be in Derbyshire.

She’d taken early retirement due to health reasons, and when her husband retired they moved as close to the countryside as possible without paying countryside house prices.

She opened the front door to Matilda and Rory, red-faced and slightly out of breath. She was a tallish woman, and had filled out since her days as a detective, but was far from overweight. Her grey hair was in a stylish cut. There was a smell of strong coffee in the background.

Matilda had never worked with Pat but she had seen her around the station from time to time and her formidable, no nonsense reputation preceded her, making her a woman to be looked up to. She doubted Pat would remember her.

‘You’d better come in. Keep the cold out,’ Pat said, her accent broad Sheffield. She stood to one side to allow her visitors to enter.

‘Madam, I think you should ask who we are first,’ Rory said. ‘You shouldn’t just let strangers in off the street.’

Pat laughed the rough throaty laugh of a smoker. She looked to Matilda. ‘Don’t you just love how the young think anyone over fifty needs a nursemaid? Young lad, I can smell a copper at fifty paces in a force nine gale and even if you weren’t police and tried anything you’d be flat on your back with my foot on your throat before you could shout for your mummy.’

Pat led them into a very large living room that ran the full length of the house. It was tastefully decorated in creams and very modern furniture. It was minimalist and tidy, apart from a few children’s toys and board games on the sofas. She quickly tidied them away.

‘You caught me in the middle of cleaning,’ she began. ‘I’ve had the grandkids for a few days. My daughter is in hospital giving birth to her fourth, silly cow. My husband drove off with them about half an hour ago. I feel like I’ve gone deaf. Sit yourselves down; I’ve got a pot of coffee just made.’

She returned in no time with a tray holding three cups, a full cafetière, and the usual addition of milk and sugar.

‘I can’t offer you a biscuit or anything; the bloody kids have had the lot. I need to restock.’

Matilda smiled. ‘I doubt you’ll remember me, Pat. I’m…’

‘I know who you are. You were DC Darke the last time I had anything to do with you. I’ve forgotten your first name, sorry. I’m guessing you’ve been promoted since then.’

‘It’s Matilda and I’m a DCI now.’

‘Good for you. I only made it to DI and then my sodding hip popped.’

‘I’m head of the Murder Investigation Unit.’

‘They tried setting one of those up in the 80s but nothing came of it.’

‘We’re looking at a cold case…’

‘The Harkness killings,’ she said, interrupting.

‘How do you know?’

‘Educated guess. I heard about the demolition. I went along to watch it. I took my oldest grandson, thought he might be interested, but he wasn’t.’

‘Why did you go?’

‘I’m not sure, professional interest or just plain nosiness, you decide. Are you fully reopening the case?’

‘It looks like it,’ Matilda replied, wrapping her cold hands around the mug of coffee and breathing in the hot vapour. ‘Is there anything about it you can tell me that we don’t already know?’

‘I doubt it. Everything you need to know is in the files, surely.’

‘Why wasn’t it solved?’ Rory seemed to be in awe of Pat.

‘Because we didn’t know who the killer was,’ she said with a heavy hint of sarcasm. ‘I’m sorry, son. I shouldn’t take the piss. It’s just that you look like you’re on bloody work experience. Please don’t tell me you’re anything higher than a DC.’

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘Just a lowly DC.’

‘Never underestimate a DC. That’s what my old DI used to say.’

‘Was your old DI the SIO on the Harkness case?’ Matilda asked.

‘Yes. DI Ken Blackstock, bless him. He died of a heart attack in 2005. His wife never got over it and died about eighteen months later. Poor thing.’ She slipped into a moment of reverie as she pictured her former boss. She hadn’t thought about him in years. When she realized four eyes were glaring at her she snapped back to the present. ‘Sorry. DI Blackstock, well, he was a good copper and a decent bloke. He was fair to his team, didn’t mind cutting corners if necessary but never anything against the law. He went a bit dark after the Harkness case though.’

‘What do you mean, dark?’

‘He couldn’t get over not being able to solve it. He kept reminding us “there’s an eleven-year-old boy out there who witnessed his parents get slaughtered. We need justice for him.” When that justice didn’t come he fell to pieces. He had to take some time off if memory serves me correctly. A lot of people were obsessed with Jonathan Harkness.’

‘How so?’

‘There was one PC. He was first on the scene and went with Jonathan into the ambulance. Their eyes were just locked on each other. It was surreal. I remember this PC kept coming into the incident room to see how everything was going. He helped out with the search for the brother, Matthew, but didn’t have any other involvement. Yet he was constantly asking questions. I think he even visited Jonathan a few times when he was staying in temporary accommodation with his aunt before he moved away.’

‘Can you remember his name?’

‘Not off the top of my head, sorry. I’ll have a think though. I think Ken ended up having to have a word with his sergeant, give him a bit of a friendly warning.’

‘What about the investigation itself; any realistic suspects?’

‘No. It was a bizarre case from start to finish. No one in that family’s lives stood out as a clear favourite. We did think Matthew might have killed his parents for a while but that was soon discounted.’

‘What about the link with animal rights groups? Stefan’s work involved testing on animals didn’t it?’

‘It did, yes, but again, that was just a five-minute wonder.’ She leaned back on the sofa and sipped her coffee. ‘God I wish I had a biscuit; I could just do with something to dunk. No, if it was an animal rights activist they would have just trashed the house, put a pig’s head in their rose bushes or something. They don’t go around hacking up people.’

‘What was your main line of investigation then?’

‘It was definitely a personal attack against the family. The only thing we could never work out was why kill the parents and leave an eleven-year-old witness? Surely when you hack a couple to bits you’ve no qualms about killing a little boy?’

With no more questions for Matilda to ask the conversation turned to the changes in policing. As they made their way to the door Matilda asked Rory to go on to the car while she had a final word with Pat.

‘What did you make of Jonathan?’ Matilda asked once they were alone.

‘It was difficult. Witnessing the murders completely messed him up. We got nothing out of him. He went mute didn’t he?’

‘That’s right. But the neighbours and friends said he was a bit of a loner, didn’t mix with the other kids; didn’t you find that strange?’

‘A little I suppose,’ she said. ‘Whatever happened to him?’

‘He’s back in Sheffield now, but he’s very withdrawn. I think he’s scared of his own shadow.’

‘I’m surprised he’s still alive.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I wouldn’t have been surprised to read in a paper that he’d jumped in front of a train or walked into the River Don with a brick in each pocket.’

‘It’s been suggested that Jonathan may have killed his parents.’

‘What?’ Pat’s eyes almost doubled in size at the question. ‘He was eleven years old. If you’d seen that crime scene you wouldn’t even consider that possibility.’

Matilda said her goodbyes and returned to the car.

‘What are you thinking?’ Rory asked after a long silence.

‘I find it very hard to believe someone can kill two people and just disappear. The way they were hacked to death suggests someone with real anger towards them. That person was obviously in their lives, but why didn’t anybody notice anything?’

‘What I don’t get is the complete difference in the murders,’ Rory began, making his way slowly through the car-strewn streets of south Sheffield. ‘You’ve got Stefan Harkness stabbed once in the back of the neck; bosh, job done. Then you’ve got Miranda Harkness; stabbed umpteen times front and back, blood splashed all over the place.’

‘Well she put up a fight didn’t she? We’re working on the assumption that the killer sneaked up on Stefan, yet Miranda put up a fight once she’d found her husband. Maybe she struggled, tried to break free or call for help.’

‘And there’s only one person who can tell us exactly what happened…’

‘I know what you’re going to say Rory,’ Matilda cut in.

After a long silence Rory continued. Matilda could see him itching to say something. He had a very expressive face. ‘Unless the beef was with Miranda. The killer could have loathed her so much that he wanted to cause her maximum suffering.’

‘No,’ Matilda was almost thinking aloud. ‘We need to look at why they were killed rather than by who. Once we know that, the killer will be easy to identify. There has to be a why. I refuse to believe in a motiveless crime.’

Hales drove home in record time; ignoring red traffic lights, zebra crossings, and give way signs. He was a man on a mission. He threw open the front door and slammed it closed behind him. He swore under his breath as he was greeted with the tinny sound of daytime television emanating from the living room. He could feel his blood boiling.

His wife didn’t raise a question about who had entered; it was unusual for anyone to come home at this time of the day. She just continued with her usual routine of nothingness.

Hales went straight into the kitchen, which was in need of a good clean. He looked around the cluttered surfaces for what he needed but couldn’t find it so he frantically opened drawers and searched in the mess of collected junk.

‘What are you doing in there?’ The eventual question came from Sara in the living room. The endless clattering was disrupting her viewing. She turned up the volume but was still irritated.

‘Nothing,’ he called out.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he almost shouted in anger.

‘I can’t hear you.’

Finding what he needed, Hales put it inside his jacket and stormed into the living room. ‘For fuck’s sake; turn down the television and you may be able to hear,’ he shouted.

She jumped in her seat. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Hales finally had a reaction from his wife. She briefly looked at him with a heavy frown before turning back to the large plasma screen on the wall.

‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.’ There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his breathing was erratic. His eyes were wide and he clenched his fists in an attempt to suppress the rage he was feeling. Who the rage was aimed at he wasn’t fully aware; Matilda for showing him up in front of his entire team, ACC Masterson for not trusting him enough to give him Matilda’s job all those months ago when she first went on leave, or his wife, his bitch of a wife, who just sat there every single day watching mindless crap on television and getting fatter with each passing year.

‘What are you doing home so early?’

‘No reason.’

Sara Hales hadn’t moved since he’d left the house at six o’clock that morning. That was more than eight hours ago. She was still in a baggy grey jogging suit, which was old, bitty, and out of shape.

With every passing year and every passing failure Hales loathed his wife just a little bit more. He had finally reached the point where he hated her. He hated feeling her body next to his in bed at night, the sound of her breathing, the gentle snoring, the lacklustre attitude for a life of her own; her baseless passion for soap operas, reality TV, and make-over shows; her constant eating and ever-expanding waist line. He more than hated her, he despised her, he resented her; he abhorred her with every fibre of his being.

‘Are you doing anything today?’ His voice was loud. It had to be. He was in competition with the television.

‘Like what?’

‘Oh I don’t know, clean the house maybe or perhaps you could go outside and get some fresh air.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Don’t you think you should?’

‘Why?’

‘Well you’re wasting your life just sitting there. You could do something; go out and get a job.’

‘Why? You earn enough for us all.’

‘How about for some self-respect? How about for some extra money so maybe we could have that conservatory I’ve always wanted or maybe we could have a holiday abroad instead of a week in Torquay every fucking year?’

‘What’s wrong with you today?’ She finally turned to look at him.

‘Can’t you see? I work my arse off for this family. I’m out all hours and what do I get in return? When was the last time we all sat down for a meal as a family? In fact, I can’t actually remember the last time you cooked. I can’t remember the last time I saw the girls, and every night when I come home you’re sat there in the same position I left you in with your eyes fixed on the TV like some demented old duffer in a nursing home.’

‘Ben, what’s brought all this on?’ Despite the wild ramblings of her husband, Sara did not raise her voice at all. This all seemed to be going in one ear and out the other.

‘I’m tired of being taken for granted around here. You and the girls see pound signs whenever you look at me as if I’m only here to dish out the cash. Well those days are over. From now on everyone has to contribute to the running of this house. Including you.’

‘What?’ An expression of genuine worry ran across her face.

‘You heard. Get off your fat arse, go out, and find a job. You may even lose some weight.’

The sound of raucous applause from the television temporarily distracted Ben from his rant. He turned to look at the forty-two-inch screen. Like everything else in the house he had paid for it, yet he couldn’t remember the last time he sat down and watched anything. He went over to the back wall, grabbed the set with both hands, and tore it from its housing. He jumped back as it tumbled to the floor and smashed at his feet. The room suddenly fell silent. Hales felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

‘What the hell…?’ exclaimed his wife.

He slowly walked over to the sofa where Sara was cowering. She was visibly shaking and looked horrified at the transformation of her husband. His face was barely inches from hers, their noses almost touching. He lowered his voice but the bitter hatred was still there. ‘Now you’ve no excuse. Get changed, get out, and get a fucking job.’

With that final outburst he stormed out of the living room and the house, slamming the front door behind him.