‘I was trawling the Internet this afternoon and did a bit of digging about the Harkness killings,’ Adele said between bites. ‘There wasn’t a shortage of suspects.’
‘I know. The Harkness case really was a mammoth task. Stefan was a researcher doing something with testing on animals. He’d received death threats from animal rights groups and I’ve got a file of over thirty interviews to go through. Miranda was a GP and was setting up a clinic to help teenagers know all about safe sex. That didn’t go down too well in the local community. If I was Poirot and I wanted to gather all my suspects I’d have to hire the Crucible Theatre.’
‘I don’t envy your task.’
‘Neither do I. The problem is I feel like I have to solve this to prove myself once again. It’s like an initiation.’
‘Did Masterson actually say that?’
‘Not in so many words. What with the house being demolished tomorrow it’s back in the press and it doesn’t look good for South Yorkshire Police to have a famous unsolved case on its hands. I just don’t think I can solve it.’
‘Come on, Mat, less of the negativity. Look at yourself; you’re back at work. You’ve made it. Show them what they’ve been missing out on while you’ve been away.’
Matilda threw down the remnants of her panini. Suddenly the weight of the task was back on her shoulders. She felt the room closing in on her, the lights seemed to dim, and the background noise of a hissing coffee machine and chatting customers all mingled into white noise. She closed her eyes and took in a slow deep breath.
Adele saw the signs of an oncoming panic attack. She had been through many of these with Matilda over the past nine months. She knew the drill. She placed her coffee mug on the saucer and leaned across the table. She put her warm hand on top of Matilda’s ice-cold hand.
‘Let’s start at the 1900s. Arthur Balfour,’ Adele encouraged.
Matilda didn’t say anything. She screwed her eyes tighter and took a deeper breath. Everything went dark. The background noise of coffee drinkers chatting and the machines spitting out steam grew louder and mingled into one undefinable squeal.
‘Clear your mind Matty. Come on, Arthur Balfour.’
‘Arthur Balfour…’ she said slowly.
‘You can do this, come on. Concentrate. Arthur Balfour.’
‘Arthur Balfour, Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, Herbert Henry Asquith, David Lloyd George.’ Matilda’s breathing began to steady.
‘Two more.’
‘Andrew Bonar Law and Stanley Baldwin.’ She took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Did someone have their hands around her throat, squeezing the breath out of her?
‘Another two more. Keep breathing.’
‘Ramsey Macdonald and Neville Chamberlain.’
‘Are you all right?’
Matilda took a final deep breath and felt her body relax. She slowly opened her eyes. ‘Yes I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. That therapist of yours might be a bit of a cow but she knows her stuff. Who would have thought the Prime Ministers of this country would have such an impact on mental health?’
‘It didn’t have to be Prime Ministers. It could have been anything; kings and queens, American states, anything.’
‘Doctor Who actors?’
‘I think I’d soon run out of those.’
‘How about James Bond actors?’ Her face almost lit up. ‘Though as soon as I got Sean Connery in my head I’d stop right there.’
Matilda was looking past Adele and out of the window. How could she function as a member of the police force if every time a sliver of doubt entered her head she fell into a maelstrom of panic? This wasn’t even an active case; it was a cold case that nobody expected her to solve. How would she cope under the pressure of a murder investigation in the here and now?
‘What are you thinking about?’ Adele asked.
‘I’m just beating myself up. I’m really not ready for this.’
‘Yes you are. You’re worth ten of Ben Hales. This is who you are. You’re going to get better and I’m going to help you.’
Matilda shrugged. ‘You’ve got your own life. You’ve got Chris.’
‘Chris can take care of himself. He’s a big boy.’
‘Yes and I’m a big girl…’
‘Who’s suffered a great loss,’ she interrupted. ‘There’s no shame in accepting help. Now, I will help you and not just with your panic attacks,’ she said, lowering her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I’ll help with the Harkness case too. We’ll be like Cagney and Lacey.’
‘Which one are you?’
‘I could never remember which was which. I’ll be the good-looking one. Kean and Darke Investigators Extraordinaire.’
Matilda smiled, but not with her eyes. ‘You’ve got your own work. I can’t ask you to help me all the time.’
‘You’re not asking. Look, what is actually bothering you in all this; is it Ben Hales?’
‘No. I’m worried that I’ll screw up again.’
‘You didn’t screw up before.’
‘Didn’t I? Adele, I killed a child, for crying out loud.’
The winter months meant dark evenings, dark nights, and dark mornings. Usually the only daylight Jonathan Harkness saw was when he looked through the window of the bookshop he worked in. Any other time he was surrounded by darkness, and he loved it.
When he was away from work he was still surrounded by books. His flat was full of them. He lived on the ground floor of a small apartment block. There were two bedrooms, a large living/dining room and kitchen and bathroom. There were books in almost every room, taking up every available space.
Aunt Clara had told him the ability to read and write was important. While hiding from the agony of the murder of his parents he lost himself in fiction. While hiding from the neighbour children and the bullies at school he sought solace in fiction. Eventually books became an obsession and he spent every waking moment reading.
His biggest passion was crime fiction. In his living room, the large back wall was lined from top to bottom with purpose-built shelves, all of them bursting with books. Hardback and paperbacks of all sizes. They were in alphabetical order and then categorized in the order they were written. He lived in his own little library.
It wasn’t long after he had moved into the flat that he ran out of space for his collection and he turned the box room into a reading room. He built shelves and bought an expensive leather wing chair. He blacked out the window to make sure no natural light would fade the colours on the spines of the book covers. This room was his haven. Every night when he finished work he would have a bite to eat, usually a sandwich, then go into his reading room – closing the door behind him, locking himself away from the outside world – and absorb himself in fantasy.
Reading the exploits of detectives such as Wexford, Jordan, Thorne, Banks, Dalziel and Pascoe, Dalgliesh, Frost, Grace, Rebus, Stanhope, Cooper and Fry, Serrailler, and Morse he was able to leave behind his own life and troubles and be somebody else.
He would read until his eyes stung with fatigue before retiring to bed and falling asleep, hopefully dreaming