the lights in the living room and kitchen and poured herself a large glass of vodka from the freezer. Next to the kettle were her tablets. She popped two antidepressants from their blister pack and swallowed them with a mouthful of alcohol. She followed that with two herbal mood lifters she’d bought. Neither seemed to be working. She went into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. She was living in a four-bedroom house all on her own. It was far too big, but her husband had bought this place for them to grow old in. He designed the interior, drew up the plans for the attic conversion and the conservatory. Everything had his mark, his personality on it. She couldn’t leave here.
Without putting the glass down she struggled to pull the files and photographs out of her bag and slapped them onto the coffee table. She would read through them and make notes until she couldn’t keep her eyes open, then force herself to go to bed. At least she wouldn’t be thinking of James and the heartache of losing him.
On the mantelpiece was a silver-framed photograph of her and James on their wedding day. He looked very handsome in his dark grey suit. His brilliant smile lit up his face and he had the warm blue eyes of a young Paul Newman. He had a few laughter lines but they added character. He was gorgeous. There was no other word for it. Next to him was the grinning Matilda in a floor-length white dress. It was a simple yet elegant design. She held onto her husband and beamed into the camera. She was happy. They were both happy.
Now the life had gone out of Matilda. Her skin was grey and her hair lifeless. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled like that. She looked up at the photograph and her whole body ached. She missed him so much.
Her body was lethargic but she had work to do. She lifted herself up The files and photographs she’d taken out of her bag were mingled together into a confused mess on the coffee table. How apt, she thought. The whole case was a mess, her head was a mess.
Pushing aside the files, she found Charlie Johnson’s book and opened it at random. She leaned back on the sofa and read aloud. As long as she couldn’t hear the sound of the ticking clock she wouldn’t feel quite so alone.
‘Chapter six: Brotherly Love?’ She looked at her wedding photo once again as if she was reading to her dead husband. ‘The age gap between Matthew and Jonathan was obviously problematic. According to neighbours, the brothers rarely interacted and were never seen together. The Harkness parents were busy with their successful careers, and, although they had a nanny when Matthew was growing up, there wasn’t one for Jonathan.
‘Jonathan was often left with neighbours after school if his parents were working late or was enrolled in several after-school clubs. During the school holidays he was anywhere but at home. Just how much input did Stefan and Miranda have in Jonathan’s upbringing?
‘Neighbour Aoife Quinn, although a close friend of the Harkness family, did not leap to the defence of Stefan and Miranda when the subject of their parenting skills was brought up. “They were a brilliant couple, hardworking and totally dedicated to their careers. However, I think having Jonathan was a mistake. Miranda never said as much, but reading between the lines, he was an accident, and an abortion would not have looked good for her career.”
‘I wonder if Jonathan has read this,’ Matilda asked aloud. ‘I bloody hope not. Imagine reading that you were a mistake. Poor sod.’
She poured herself another glass of vodka and downed the double shot in one gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sniffled. She was crying. She wasn’t crying for her husband though, she was crying for Jonathan Harkness; a man she was yet to meet, yet a man she had a great deal of sadness for.
Despite never wanting children, for a split second, as she looked into her husband’s beaming face, she wondered what they would have been like as parents. She had never considered herself maternal, but if she had known James was going to die after five years of marriage she would have spent her whole married life pregnant, making sure she had something of him to cherish.
Bloody hell! Was everything going to bring her back to James and her sad pathetic excuse for a life? She flicked through the paperback and stopped at a different section.
‘Chapter Eight: Alternative Theories,’ she began again. ‘Despite Stefan Harkness being a leading authority in cancer drug trials in the western world his work often came under close scrutiny and caused a great deal of controversy. By the time he was thirty he had already been before three government select committees to justify his work.
‘At the time of his death in December 1994, news of his current work was well known in the scientific field and by interested parties. The fact he was testing on animals was no secret and he had received threats to halt his work or “suffer the consequences of your deplorable actions” as one rather prosaic letter written in pig’s blood said.
‘In the weeks leading up to his death Stefan Harkness had received abusive phone calls, anonymous letters, and a box containing the rotting corpses of three dozen mice was delivered to the house addressed to the Harkness children. Despite extensive investigations by South Yorkshire Police none of the activists, who eventually held up their hands to sending the hateful mail, were considered credible suspects for the double murder.’
Matilda put the book face down on the sofa next to her and looked up at the wedding photo. ‘Well we knew that didn’t we James? This Charlie Johnson bloke certainly seems to be a font of knowledge. I wonder who his source was.’
Should she read on or have another drink of vodka? She looked from the bottle to the book and back again. The alcohol won.
Jonathan Harkness sat in his reading room. He was rereading On Beulah Height by Reginald Hill for the third time. He was just over halfway through.
Next to him on the small table was a large mug of tea – milk with one sugar – and two digestive biscuits on a square of kitchen roll. He had been reading for over two hours.
The door to the room was closed and the only light came from the thin standard lamp, which was behind the wing chair and loomed over him.
When he came to the end of the chapter he looked up at the mass of books that surrounded him. He was content here. He was safe in this room. In reality his mind was diseased, and forever tortured him with paranoia and depressive thoughts, but in this room he was safe. He could live the life of the characters, interact with them, help Dalziel and Pascoe solve the crime. His lips spread into a smile and then he returned to the paperback and continued reading.
Directly above, Maun Barrington was rereading a story in the local newspaper. It had arrived at lunchtime. She was shocked by the amount of space the paper had given to the story, surely it didn’t warrant a whole page – it was just a house being demolished.
She went over the conversation she’d had with Jonathan in the foyer a couple of hours ago. He couldn’t wait to get away from her. Why? She shrugged off her pointless reverie. He was bound to have a lot on his mind with tomorrow’s events. She was still puzzled as to why he didn’t want her going with him. He always sought her advice.
She decided to attend anyway, keep out of sight so Jonathan didn’t see her. She wanted to be there. She wanted to see his emotions; the agony, the relief, the heartache and the horror so she could be there for him later when he came home from work. She had a strange unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach that something was going to happen. Change was coming. Whatever it was, she hoped she wouldn’t lose Jonathan because of it. She couldn’t cope with losing anyone else.
