‘Unfortunately,’ Matilda began, flicking through the three-page statement, ‘it doesn’t go into a great deal of detail. It doesn’t even say where he was hiding, for crying out loud. All it says is that he was hiding in the woods. Sheffield is one of the greenest cities in the country; it’s surrounded by bloody woods.’
‘Is Matthew still in Sheffield?’
‘No. He moved away as soon as his education was finished. I’ve no idea where he is now. We’ll have to try and track him down. These case notes are pitiful.’
She closed the file in frustration and looked up as the roaring sound of the hydraulic excavator slowly moved onto the plot of the Harkness house. It was demolition time.
A few nosy neighbours had congregated. They were dressed appropriately in long coats, hats, and scarves. They had their hands firmly in their pockets to keep warm or their arms wrapped tightly around their bodies. Some people didn’t care about the cold; they just wanted to be witness to an event that would go down in local history.
From a nearby Mondeo a young man in his early thirties wearing an open-necked shirt, faded blue trousers, and scuffed black shoes climbed out from behind the steering wheel. From the passenger seat, a gruff-looking man close to retirement hoisted himself out with a large camera around his neck.
‘Bloody press,’ Matilda said under her breath.
‘Are we getting out?’ Rory asked.
‘No I don’t…’ she stopped when her eyes fell on something of interest. She quickly scanned through the reports in front of her once again and found what she was looking for: a photograph. She looked up through the windscreen then down at the picture again.
‘Do you reckon that’s Jonathan Harkness?’ She showed Rory the photo of an eleven-year-old Jonathan in school uniform. He was looking directly into the camera lens and had a forced smile on his face. It was obviously a school photograph and he didn’t seem too pleased to be having it taken.
Rory looked at the picture then up at the young man in the black coat who was standing away from the crowd on his own. ‘It looks like him. Same build, same hair.’
‘Come on then.’ She whipped off her seatbelt and jumped out of the car.
Shortly after arriving at his childhood home, Jonathan saw the journalist and photographer climbing out of their car. He hoped they wouldn’t recognize him and lifted up his coat collar. He was standing alone, away from the crowd of ghoulish onlookers, but wondered if this might draw attention to the reporter so he slowly edged back to join them.
As soon as the large hydraulic excavator made its way onto the overgrown garden where he used to play, his attention was firmly aimed at the home he was born in.
His heart was beating loudly in his ears and he took a deep breath. He was dressed for the weather, wrapped up in scarf and gloves, but he was shivering underneath his thick winter coat. His mouth was dry and he swallowed painfully a few times. He watched as the arm was slowly raised a little higher than the roof. The bucket was angled and just as it made contact with the house he closed his eyes tight. The crunching sound caused him to jump. He opened his eyes and saw the large hole in what used to be his bedroom.
A large section of the front of the house was soon torn down and for the first time in more than twenty years, daylight penetrated the rooms. He looked up at the damaged building and saw the blue and white striped wallpaper that adorned the walls of his sanctuary.
He hadn’t realized how much this was going to affect him. As soon as he saw the wallpaper he could feel a lump in his throat and tears gathering in his eyes. He was hoping for a cathartic experience, closure maybe, but he couldn’t cope with this. It was killing him. The crowd of gawkers around him gossiped among themselves; their voices fighting with the noise from the demolition site.
‘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,