felt sick. They’re my family. I don’t have anyone else.
I went downstairs, and Thomas was sitting at the bottom. I went into the kitchen and dialled 999. Then I went back to Thomas and put my arm around him. We waited until the police arrived.
The case appeared to be open and shut. There was no evidence of a break-in. None of the windows had been tampered with. Thomas’s fingerprints were all over his parents’ bedroom. There were no other foreign prints anywhere else in the house. However, there was one very important aspect missing from the case – a confession. Thomas vehemently denied killing his family. He stuck to his story, and it never varied no matter how many times he said it. Throughout the trial he maintained his innocence. There was absolutely no evidence to prove Thomas Hartley didn’t kill his family. A negative could not be proven.
What was Thomas’s motive for killing his family in such a disturbing and shocking way? Nobody knew. Almost three years later and still nobody knew.
Matilda turned away from the computer and looked out of the window. The clouds were gathering over the Steel City. She had heard on the radio that a storm was due later in the week. By the thickness and colour of the clouds it looked as if it had arrived. It was only early afternoon yet appeared to be late evening.
Matilda’s mind was full of questions. The case against Thomas Hartley was flimsy at best. There was no sign of a disturbance or break-in, but that didn’t mean Daniel Hartley hadn’t let his killer into the house; a killer who then let himself out afterwards. That was never followed up. And what about the sister? Debbie Hartley was home alone and didn’t have an alibi. Again, it seemed the police took her word for it. There was no mention of a murder weapon either. Had one been found? As far as Matilda was concerned the Senior Investigating Officer liked Thomas Hartley for the killings, and as there was no evidence to the contrary he didn’t bother looking too deeply.
Maybe that was true but all Matilda could think was that Thomas Hartley was innocent.
This had nothing to do with Matilda or South Yorkshire Police. The murders were committed in Manchester. She had no reason to investigate, no reason to stick her nose into a closed case apart from a gut feeling. She leaned back in her chair, a pensive look etched on her face. She picked up her phone and dialled.
‘Rory, have you been sent all the case files for the inmates?’
‘Yes. I’m going through them now.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Are you OK?’ she asked, noticing his less than cheerful voice.
‘Yes, fine. It’s just, well, it’s not exactly light reading, is it?’
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘Ma’am, about these boys, I was wondering … ’
‘I’ll talk to you about it later, Rory.’
She ended the call without saying goodbye. None of it was light reading. These boys were murderers; their crimes were shocking and deplorable. They were in Starling House until they were old enough to be moved to an adult prison. They had accepted their fate. Yet Thomas Hartley didn’t seem to be coping very well living among killers. Why was that?
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