For Reasons Unknown. Michael Wood
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.
Overnight the temperature had plunged to a perishing minus five degrees. By 6 a.m. everything was covered in an icy white glaze. Pavements were slippery underfoot; frost crunched under the weight of tyres; and the dead, frozen body of a man was discovered behind an industrial bin in Sheffield City Centre.
A man on his way to work, taking a short cut to the tram stop on West Street, stumbled across the body next to an 80s themed nightclub on Holly Lane. He dialled 999 then waited impatiently for uniformed officers to arrive. By the time they did, not only was the witness hopping from foot to foot to keep warm but he was thoroughly pissed off at being late for work on employee evaluation day.
A tall constable tentatively made his way to the steel bin. A pair of legs was sticking out from behind but nothing more. The closer he went more of the body was revealed. When he reached the face he quickly clamped a leather gloved hand over his mouth. It looked as if the victim’s head had exploded.
The call came through to the MIT and was answered by DS Sian Mills. When she relayed the news to Acting DCI Hales he almost punched the air with excitement.
‘Grab your coat and a DC and let’s go,’ he said to Sian. He was out of the door before he’d finished talking.
At fifty, Ben Hales had never quite reached his full potential and didn’t know why. He was a well-built man with plenty of padding around the middle and dark salt-and-pepper hair cut short. His personality was prickly, which, if you didn’t know him, could be mistaken for severe. Nobody in work knew him. A fact that he didn’t care about.
‘Blimey, what’s got into him?’ Faith Easter said. She’d nearly been sent flying by a departing Ben Hales as she entered the room.
‘Don’t bother taking your coat off. Uniform have found a body. Come on.’
It wasn’t far from South Yorkshire Police HQ to the murder site and there was no great rush, but Hales had his foot firmly pressed on the accelerator all the way there. Sian was in the passenger seat sending a text to DS Aaron Connolly letting him know where they all were, while Faith was in the back seat holding on tight to the door strap.
Hales pulled the Audi up at a dodgy angle and jumped out of the car. The two uniformed officers had been joined by a further five who were busy securing the area with blue and white police tape. A small crowd of perverse onlookers had already gathered.
This was exactly what Hales had been hoping for; an active murder investigation he could get his teeth into and show his bosses who had the ability to lead the Murder Investigation Team. He clapped his hands together as he approached the uniformed officers.
‘Right then, who was first on the scene?’
‘We were, sir. I’m PC Ashcroft and this is PC Rutherford.’
‘What have we got?’
‘A dead man behind the industrial bin. He’s been very badly beaten.’
‘Who found him?’
‘A passer-by on his way to work.’ He looked at his notebook. ‘Jason Patterson. I’ve