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‘That used to be such a beautiful house. What a waste.’
‘That place always gave me the creeps. It should have been torn down years ago.’
‘Can you imagine what went on in there?’
‘I wonder what those poor kids are up to these days.’
‘I used to have that wallpaper in my back bedroom.’
As Jonathan walked away he was stopped by a tired-looking woman and a sharply dressed young man behind her. He wondered if they were more reporters. Bloody vultures.
‘Are you Jonathan Harkness?’ Matilda asked.
‘Who?’ His voice was gruff, his throat still dry.
‘You are aren’t you? Don’t worry; I’m not from the newspapers.’ She fished her ID from her inside pocket. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke, this is Detective Constable Rory Fleming. We’re from the Murder Investigation Team at South Yorkshire Police. Would it be possible to have a few words?’
Jonathan looked from Matilda to Rory then back again. ‘I’m sorry but I’m about to go to work.’
The sound of a wall collapsing behind them broke their concentration. Both Matilda and Rory looked in the direction of the house while Jonathan closed his eyes. The agony of grief and terror was etched on his face.
‘I understand this is a very difficult day for you Mr Harkness but we’d just like a brief chat.’
‘I don’t have anything to say.’
He looked sad. His face was pale and his blue eyes dull. He had the look of someone on the brink of tears.
‘We’re having another look at the case.’
‘What?’ Now Matilda had his full attention. He looked genuinely shocked. ‘Why?’
‘We review cold cases every so often, and with the demolition we’ve decided to take another look.’
‘Is there new evidence?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
‘Look, between the book and your archives you pretty much have all the information there is.’
‘You’re right, there is plenty of information, but there’s one thing missing: your statement.’
Jonathan looked up from the ground and into Matilda’s eyes. ‘My statement?’
‘I know you went mute after everything that happened, it’s hardly surprising, but your statement is vital to finding out the truth.’
‘I really don’t think…’
‘Mr Harkness,’ Matilda’s voice took on an edgier tone. ‘This is an official police investigation. We need your statement. Would you like to come down to the station now?’
The look on Jonathan’s face at the mention of going to the police station was one of horror. His eyes widened, his mouth opened a little and his bottom lip quivered. He took a deep breath as if to steady his nerves.
‘If you don’t feel comfortable at the station we can do it at your home. Your choice.’
Behind him the side of the house collapsed and exposed the living room. Jonathan turned to look at the wreckage and quickly screwed his eyes shut again.
‘We’ll go back to my flat.’
The crowd of onlookers had grown, some were even filming it on their mobile phones. One member in particular stood out from the rest as she was the only person not interested in the demolition. She took a step back and looked at Jonathan talking to a good-looking young man with shiny hair and a dishevelled woman who could win first prize in a Vera Stanhope lookalike competition. She had enough experience of police officers in her time to recognize who they were. What were they doing here? Surely a house being demolished didn’t warrant police interest, especially officers in plain clothes. The conversation between the three of them seemed very tense. She was itching to know what they were saying but didn’t dare risk getting closer in case she was noticed. Maun waited until they had disappeared around the corner before following.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_e65c341f-2815-5d8d-9609-1321bb2f2dac)
The journey from Whirlow to Jonathan’s apartment was a short car drive away, conducted in silence. When they arrived at the building Matilda was shocked to find he had moved so close to the house where his parents had been brutally murdered. He’d obviously not laid his demons to rest even after twenty years. Would she still be living in anguish at the loss of her husband two decades from now?
Jonathan pointed out the living room to his guests then hurried into the kitchen to prepare coffee for them all.
‘He doesn’t have a TV,’ Rory said straightaway in hushed tones.
‘Trust you to notice that,’ she replied, and she smiled.
‘Look at all these books.’
Both Matilda and Rory were agog at the collection. They were even more surprised by the neatness of the display.
‘Do you think he’s read them all?’
‘I doubt they’re there for ornamental purposes.’
‘I’ve never seen so many outside of a branch of Waterstones.’
‘Come off it Rory, when was the last time you stepped foot into a bookshop?’
A blank expression swept across his smooth face as he tried to think. Matilda thought she detected the smell of burning as the cogs turned in his pretty little head.
‘I bought the Guinness Book of Records last Christmas.’
‘Hardly a Booker winner.’
‘A what?’
Jonathan entered carrying a tray with three mismatched cups and a cafetière full of black coffee. He made for the middle of the room then turned away, setting the tray down on a small table in the corner. He looked down at the carpet and unconsciously put a hand to his neck. Matilda followed his gaze and noticed four indentations where a piece of furniture used to stand; probably an old coffee table.
‘We were just admiring your collection.’ Matilda pointed to the bookcases as if they needed pointing out. They dominated the whole room.
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you read them all?’ Rory asked, still bewildered by the display.
‘Of course,’ Jonathan replied harshly.
‘Where’s your TV?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s nothing of interest I want to watch. I believe that if you’re not a fan of soap operas or reality shows you’re not catered for.’
‘I have to agree with you there,’ Matilda said. ‘I pay my TV licence and a subscription to Sky but I certainly don’t get my money’s worth.’
‘I expect being a detective takes up a lot of your time too.’
‘You tell me,’ Matilda said. She nodded towards the crime fiction collection with a smile.
‘Would you like to take a seat?’ Jonathan smiled back at Matilda.
Matilda and Rory both unbuttoned their coats as they sat on the leather sofa. Jonathan remained ready to leave the house; coat buttoned, scarf wrapped around his neck.
With slightly shaking hands, he poured them both a cup of coffee. He told them to help themselves to milk and sugar while he drank his black. Rory looked disappointed at the small plate with half a dozen boring digestive biscuits; he’d been hoping for something chocolatey, a Hobnob or a Bourbon. Jonathan sat on a matching armchair next to a small wooden table that held about twenty paperback novels.
‘Why aren’t those on the shelves?’ Rory asked.
‘Because I haven’t read them yet.’
‘Where do you work?’ Matilda asked, taking a lingering sniff of the coffee.
‘Waterstones in Orchard Square.’
‘Really?’ Rory laughed.
‘Yes,’ Jonathan frowned.
‘Would you mind if I recorded this conversation?’ Matilda asked. She took a digital recorder from her pocket. Jonathan shook his head, so she pressed a couple of buttons then set it down on the small table between the two of them. ‘I’d like you to tell us your story.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘Why?’
‘As I said, we’re having another look at the case and I’ve been through the statements, reports, and paperwork and there doesn’t seem to be a statement from you. Did you ever make one?’
Jonathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Subconsciously he was tapping each of the four fingers on his left hand against his thumb. After tapping twice with each finger, eight taps, he stopped for a second before starting again.
Matilda recognized the signs of anxiety; she should do, anxiety was a permanent house guest for her. She looked across at Rory but he was still staring at the books. She wondered if her traits were as obvious.
‘After it happened,’ he began. His voice broke. ‘After it happened I was in a state of shock. I didn’t speak for a very long time. The police came to see me many times. They kept bringing different kinds of specialists, all of them trying to get me to talk in their own unique way but it didn’t work. I seem to remember one woman using hand puppets.’ He gave a nervous smile at the memory.
‘How long was it before you talked again?’
‘About eighteen months.’
‘And you’d left Sheffield by then?’
‘Yes. I was living with my aunt up in Newcastle.’
‘When did you move back to Sheffield?’
‘About five years ago I think.’
‘Why did you decide to come back?’
Jonathan lowered his head. ‘My aunt died, and as much as I enjoyed living in Newcastle it was always her home, not mine. Sheffield is all I know.’
Matilda nodded then changed the subject. ‘On the night your parents died…’
‘They were killed,’ Jonathan interrupted with a solid, almost stern voice. ‘They didn’t die; they were killed.’
‘Sorry. On the night they were killed, you were all getting ready to attend a carol concert, weren’t you?’
Jonathan rolled his eyes. ‘Do I really need to go through all this again? I’m sure with all your reports and Charlie Johnson’s book you can piece it all together.’
‘Have you read Charlie Johnson’s book?’
‘Yes. My aunt bought a copy. She wanted to know how accurate it was.’
‘How accurate is it?’
‘In places it’s so spot on it’s like he was there making notes.’
‘Did you talk to Mr Johnson at the time of him writing it?’
‘No. He tracked me down to Newcastle and wrote to us and phoned us a few times. He even sent a signed blank cheque in the post asking us to name our price.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. Aunt Clara tore it up and posted the pieces back to him.’ Jonathan smiled at the memory. ‘I received a letter from him a few days ago actually. He’s working on an updated version and wants to interview me. How he found out I’m back in Sheffield is beyond me.’
‘Did you reply?’
‘Why would I do that?’
Matilda took another sip of her coffee, it was delicious. ‘Getting back to the night of the murders, where were you in the house at the time?’
‘I was in my bedroom,’ he replied, taking a deep breath, preparing himself to relive the horror.
‘And what happened to make you leave your bedroom?’
‘Nothing. I was getting ready and my dad was going to tie my bow tie. I went across the landing and into their bedroom and just found him slumped over the desk.’
‘Was he dead?’
‘I think so.’
