For Reasons Unknown (14 page)

Not for the first time today DS Sian Mills found herself alone in the Murder Room. Acting DCI Hales had been missing in action for several hours, and Faith Easter had disappeared to the toilet more than half an hour ago. She was blaming an upset stomach for her sudden and frequent departures, but Sian heard the catch in her throat as she tried to swallow the tears from her previous run-in with Hales.

She was about to make a private call to her husband when her extension sang its usual irritating tinny ring. She sighed, and picked up the phone, identifying herself.

Earlier in the day she had contacted Manchester police and given them the address of Matthew Harkness to which his Audi TT was registered. Now, three hours later, they were calling back with their findings.

‘Your dead man had some really expensive stuff. I thought my young PC was going to set up home there.’ DS Richard Bellamy had a gruff Manchester accent.

Sian liked it. His fast pace of talking and his jokey attitude made her smile.

‘Stylish then?’

‘I believe it’s called minimalistic. Everything was very clean and tidy, put away in drawers and cupboards; magazines neatly stacked on the coffee table. I don’t know who his cleaner is but they deserve an OBE.’

‘Do you get awarded an OBE for services to cleaning?’

‘Probably. They hand them out for anything these days.’

Sian could sense a rant coming on so asked how he and his team entered the flat.

‘His next-door neighbour had a key; lovely woman, blonde hair, blue eyes, nice…’

‘I don’t need her particulars, thanks. Did you find anything?’

‘The usual. He had a neatly arranged concertina file in his spare bedroom that gave us plenty of information so we didn’t have to do much snooping: gym membership, rugby club membership, casino, bars, et cetera. Contract of employment with all the details on it too, which was useful. I had a couple of uniformed lads go round to the gym and clubs to have a chat and find out what he was like. Oh and I found his car insurance details, which match the reg. number you gave me, and his passport was in his bedside cabinet. I’m scanning it as we speak; it will be with you shortly.’

‘Anything more personal?’

‘Not really. There were no photos on the walls, just very nice, expensive furniture, and a TV and entertainment unit that I would kill for.’

‘Is that a confession?’

‘Bugger. You’ve got me bang to rights,’ he said with the throaty laugh of a heavy smoker. ‘He had all the mod cons in the kitchen too, my wife would love a kitchen like his, not that it would stay clean for long with our kids, pair of monsters.’

‘Did you find an address book or anything?’

‘There was a small black book in his bedside cabinet that had a few numbers in it. I’ll scan those too.’

‘Anything for a Jonathan Harkness?’

‘Hang on.’

Sian could hear the rattling of pages.

‘No. Nothing under H or J. There’s a newspaper clipping though, which was tucked into the back. It’s from a national about a house being demolished in Sheffield. That’ll be the infamous Harkness haunted house will it?’

‘It certainly will. Can you email me the cutting too?’

‘No problem.’

‘Did you find anything out from the neighbour, the one with the key?’

‘Yes, she’s married and her husband’s in the armed forces.’

Sian laughed. She wondered what it would be like to work alongside DS Bellamy. He could be fun around the office, brighten up a dull or difficult day. Though his constant joking would probably wear a little thin after a while.

‘The neighbour with the key said she hardly ever saw him, and a few other neighbours backed her up. Apparently he’s always away with work. She only had the key in case of emergencies and she picked up his mail too from time to time.’

‘What work does he do?’

‘His contract says he’s a Technical Financial…I’ve got it here somewhere. His neighbours said it was something to do with accountancy but he’s not an accountant. My eyes glazed over after a while. I’ve no idea how money works, just that my wife likes spending it. Head office is in London so he spends a lot of his time there.’

‘I wonder if he had a place in London too,’ Sian said, mostly to herself.

‘No, I asked and the company puts him up in hotels.’

‘Were there any photo albums, scrapbooks?’

‘Yes there was. He had an album in his wardrobe and it had all the newspaper clippings of the case about his parents.’

‘Interesting,’ Sian said thoughtfully. ‘Was there anything there that you thought a bit odd?’

‘Yes. He’s got eight copies of
A Christmas Killing
by Charlie Johnson.’

‘Eight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would he have eight copies?’

‘No idea. Maybe he liked to hand them out to girlfriends and play the poor wounded victim to get some action,’ he said with a belly laugh.

‘That’s what you’d do is it?’

‘Why not? Might as well use your personal tragedy for something.’

Sian laughed. ‘Thanks for everything Richard. You’ve been a big help.’

‘No problem. Anything else, just give us a call.’

‘Will do and the next time I’m in Manchester I’ll buy you a pint.’

‘You certainly know the way to my heart; straight through my liver.’

As Sian hung up Rory breezed into the room with all the social grace of a hungry elephant. Sian wondered if she would ever get around to making her private phone call.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Hales is probably sulking somewhere, Aaron’s going through statements, and Faith’s in the toilets. Again.’

‘Again? Is she not well?’

‘I think she’s allergic to being shouted at.’

‘Oh. I was hoping for a full room when I burst in with my super fantastic news.’

‘Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, you’re going to have to settle for just me. So what’s this fantastic news; you’ve solved the murders and we can all go home early?’

‘Early?’ He looked at his watch and saw it was just passed half-past eight. ‘You call this early?’

‘Actually I do. Come on then, tell me your news and if it’s worth it I’ll give you a chocolate teacake.’

‘Jonathan ID’d the body as Matthew Harkness so we have one hundred per cent confirmation that our dead body is the oldest child of Stefan and Miranda Harkness. He was killed the night before his childhood home was being demolished. It’s all fitting together rather nicely,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Well, I’ve just been on the phone to Manchester; they’ve searched his flat and I’m being emailed all the personal stuff, contract of employment, passport. It’s definitely him.’

‘Where does he work?’

‘For some accountancy company in London.’

‘Not short of a few quid then. Do I get my teacake?’

Sian smiled, opened her bottom drawer, and tossed a small foil-covered teacake across to him. Sometimes work in this office was like being at home with her kids.

‘Oh, before I forget, DCI Darke asked me to ask you if you’ll track down Charlie Johnson. She wants to talk to him, find out who his sources were when he was writing his book, that sort of thing.’

‘OK. Have you read the book yet?’

‘I’m about halfway through; bit of a slow reader.’

‘According to the police in Manchester, Matthew Harkness had eight copies.’

‘Eight? It’s not that good. So what happens now that your case is linked with Darke’s cold case?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m guessing Matilda is going to want to be in on this. It’s looking like a safe assumption to say that whoever killed Matthew has some connection to the Harkness killings twenty years ago.’

They sat in silence for a few seconds while they thought about what Sian had said.

‘Maybe Matthew knew who killed his parents and now the case is back in the spotlight the killer is afraid of being caught so killed Matthew to silence him,’ Rory guessed.

‘But if Matthew knew who the killer was, surely he would have mentioned it years ago. You’d want the person who murdered your parents locked up wouldn’t you?’

‘OK. Well, maybe the killer thought Matthew would put two and two together now the case is reopened so had to be silenced before he could do anything about it.’

‘What about Jonathan putting two and two together?’

‘The killer could have been keeping an eye on Matthew and Jonathan over the years. He knows Jonathan’s a bit of a paranoid wreck, but Matthew, who is a sane and strong individual, is more of a threat.’

‘That’s possible, I suppose,’ Sian said.

‘Or maybe the killer arranged to meet Matthew here in Sheffield to talk things over, see the house get demolished together as a sort of therapy thing, and the killer lured him into a trap and killed him.’

‘If that’s the case and the killer of Stefan and Miranda Harkness also killed Matthew, then Jonathan could be in very serious danger.’

Jonathan and Stephen had been walking for half an hour in complete silence. There was no particular destination; they just ambled, following the road. Jonathan was going over the conversation from the pub in his mind, wondering what he should do and say and then questioning himself for taking everything so seriously. Stephen kept stealing glances at Jonathan, trying to read his expression, but, as usual, his face was blank.

They crossed over the road at the traffic lights outside Sheffield Children’s Hospital and Jonathan headed straight for the open gates of Weston Park.

To their left was the large building of Weston Park Museum; a place Jonathan had been to many times in the past, always alone. The park was beautiful, with tennis courts, a band stand, and benches for workers from the nearby hospital to sit with their packed lunches during the day. At night it had a different feel. The sky was clear and a full bright moon cast long shadows from the trees. It wasn’t late but the park was mostly empty. Who would want to walk through an open park in freezing-cold temperatures in the pitch-dark?

‘Nobody has ever told me they love me before,’ Jonathan eventually said as they passed the museum.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Stephen commented.

‘Well, my Aunt Clara always wrote it on my birthday cards and I think she did say it to me once on the anniversary of the deaths of my parents, but that’s different isn’t it, from what you mean?’

‘Yes it is.’ He smiled, wondering how a man in his thirties can lack the concept of emotions. ‘Look, Jonathan, I know you haven’t had the easiest of lives so far; I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult things have been, I don’t think anyone can unless they’ve been through it, but I can understand why you are like this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You close yourself up; you don’t let anyone get close to you at all. You’ve spoken of your neighbour Maun and said how she has helped, but I doubt you’ve even fully opened up to her. You shouldn’t keep everything bottled up. It’s not healthy.’

The tennis courts were empty and a cold wind caused the nets to sway. It was eerie. If Jonathan had been alone, he would have been petrified, even of his own shadow. They left Weston Park and crossed over Winter Street and entered Crookes Valley Park. To get to the path there was a winding rugged track through some trees. Even though it was the middle of winter and the trees had shed their leaves, the thick branches covered the moon causing the darkness to close in. The silence was intense.

‘Stephen, everyone I have come into contact with has died. My parents, the two people you should be able to depend on and love unconditionally were snatched away from me. My Aunt Clara died, Matthew went to live elsewhere, and now he’s dead too.’

‘I honestly have no idea what to say to make you feel better.’

‘Why is it happening to me?’ Jonathan looked over to his boss as if seeking an actual answer to an impossible question.

‘I have no idea Jonathan. Why does anything happen to anyone? It’s one of those “what’s the meaning of life?” questions.’

‘So you’re saying I just got dealt an unlucky hand?’

‘It would appear so, yes. I wish I had the answer you’re looking for.’

‘I don’t even know what the question is.’

They came to the end of the wooded area of the park and it opened out onto a clearing. The lightness from the moon returned and they could see each other’s faces once again.

‘Jonathan, you have had an awful time of things and you shouldn’t go through them alone. I know you’re very guarded when it comes to opening up and that is perfectly understandable, but I think you’re pretty great and I want to be there for you. I want to help you, to look after you, to make you smile once in a while. Please Jonathan, let me in.’

Jonathan was overwhelmed. Throughout the whole of this corrupt and diseased world there was another human being who wanted him in their life for no other reason than simply wanting to make sure he was happy.

Even Maun, the only other person he ever told his life story to, he suspected of having ulterior motives for befriending him. He knew about her past, her marriage, her husband’s death and the way the rest of the neighbours in the building ostracized her, but he suspected she only had him in her life because she had nobody else left.

Jonathan had never thought of Stephen as anything other than a boss. If he thought about it, which is what he was being asked to do, he would look upon Stephen as representing something more. Jonathan did like him. He was a good man, a kind man, a generous man, intelligent, funny and warm, with a soft southern Irish accent, deep, dark brown eyes, smooth complexion, full lips…what did this mean? How long had he thought of his boss like this?

‘Do you mind if I sleep on it?’ Jonathan asked.

‘What? No, no, of course not. Take all the time you need.’

‘It’s been a long day. I just want to go home and have a think.’

‘Yes sure. No problem. Do you want me to give you a lift?’

‘No that’s OK. Look, Stephen, thank you for everything today; coming to the hospital and for what you’ve said to me tonight. I really appreciate it, honestly. Can we talk about it tomorrow morning, before work?’

‘Sure. I’ll pick you up if you want?’

‘I’d like that, thank you.’

Jonathan smiled. He didn’t do it very often but when he did, it lit up his face. The smile reached up to his eyes; they sparkled.

‘Well, I’ll see you in the morning then.’

They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. Jonathan turned away first and headed for the bright lights of Albion Street while Stephen turned and walked up the narrow and dimly lit Oxford Street.

Jonathan had barely walked ten paces when he realized he felt different. He held his head high instead of permanently looking at the ground. His shoulders were no longer hunched and he felt relaxed. Someone in his life cared for him, loved him, and that made him happy.

As his mind raced to tomorrow morning and what he was going to say to Stephen when he called to pick him up, he barely registered the sound of car brakes squealing, but on hearing the angry thud he turned around: Stephen was lying ahead, in a crumpled heap on the cold road.

Jonathan opened his mouth to say something, to scream, to call out, anything, but no sounds came. Not for the first time in his life, he was struck dumb.

Jonathan’s heart stopped. This could not be happening. Not again. Not to Stephen. He was one of the good guys. Jonathan ran to his fallen boss and dropped to his knees. He felt sick as he looked down on another life being snatched from him far too soon.

There wasn’t a single mark on Stephen. His complexion was still smooth, his hair still neat, yet his limbs were in a painful position. His eyes were closed. He looked as if he had just lain down to take a nap in the middle of the road.

Jonathan picked up Stephen’s cold left hand and held it tight. It was unresponsive. The world around him suddenly fell silent and there was just the two of them, alone yet together, for one last time.

‘Stephen,’ Jonathan’s voice was a whimper; the smallest sound left his lips and drifted away on the cold breeze unheard. ‘Stephen…please…’

The rough, angry sound of an engine revving caused Jonathan to look up through tear-stained eyes. The car ahead that had knocked down the only person ever to make him smile and feel a modicum of happiness had its reversing lights on and it was slowly gaining speed.