Matilda reached in and lifted it out. She held it firmly in both hands. Searching back in her memory twenty years, she briefly remembered eleven-year-old Jonathan Harkness being found alone at the crime scene. How long had he been there? Had he been present in the room as his parents were butchered in front of him? If so, why hadn’t the killer turned on him too? Respectfully, she gently placed the shirt back in the box and returned the lid.
Another knock at the door brought her back from her reverie. She sniffled and realized she was on the brink of tears, clearly from the effects of the bloodied shirt belonging to an innocent child mixed with her already fragile emotional state. Maybe she would feel better once she started on the case properly.
‘Come in.’
This time the door breezed open and in bounded DC Rory Fleming like Tigger on Ecstasy.
‘Rory, good to see you. What can I do for you?’ She tried to sound jolly but it came out rather laboured.
‘I’ve been assigned to you ma’am, for the Harkness case.’
‘Oh right. Well come on in. Have a seat, if you can find room.’
He shut the door and sat on the hard wooden seat on the opposite side of the desk. They eyed each other up in painful silence.
‘So, are you pleased to be back?’
‘Right,’ she began, slapping her hands on the desk, ‘let’s get things settled before we begin. Firstly, you don’t need to treat me like I’m made of glass. I’m not going to break. Secondly, you don’t have to be careful about what you say. There’s bound to be some mention of missing children or kidnapping at some point, and while it will bring back memories, they’re my memories and not yours, so don’t worry. Thirdly, the length of time I was off was due to personal reasons, which have no effect on my work, so you don’t need to know about them. Is that all right?’
Rory looked taken aback by the speech. He nodded as if summing it up. ‘That’s fine by me,’ he gave a pained smile.
‘Good. So, how are things with you?’
‘No offence but that’s a personal matter, which has no effect on my work, so you don’t need to know about that.’
Matilda threw her head back and gave out a natural laugh straight from the pit of her stomach. Yes, she definitely had made the right decision to return to work.
DC Rory Fleming was a good-looking young man in his late twenties. He had the clean-cut look of a fresh-faced Premiership footballer with brawn to match. He took care of his appearance; always wore well-fitted, clean suits, which hung on him like they did on the shop dummy, and seemed to have a new tie every day. Now, trapped in an office the size of a prison cell with a mountain of paperwork to wade through and with no natural ventilation, his skin was dry, his hair ruffled from the many times he had run his fingers through it in exasperation, and his once crisp white shirt creased, with the sleeves rolled up.
He had just finished reading a section of Charlie Johnson’s ‘definitive book’ on the Harkness killings. Twenty years ago Fleming was still an infant, overly excited about the upcoming visit from Father Christmas, and stealing chocolates from the back of the Christmas tree.
DC Fleming was Sheffield born and bred. He knew of the Harkness case, having heard the story many times from various relatives, and colleagues on the job, but he wasn’t familiar with the gory details. The killings were frenzied. From the crime-scene photographs, Stefan Harkness had been killed at his desk, where he was sitting. It appeared the killer had come from behind and caught him unawares. All it took was a single stab wound in the back of his neck to render him immobile. He had been unable to fend off his attacker, and died where he sat.
The killing of his wife, however, was one of unadulterated rage. The bed was covered in blood and the sheets disturbed. From the height and direction of the blood sprays she had been knifed in the chest and tried to flee her attacker. She stumbled onto the bed and managed to get to the other side before being struck again. Once on the floor the violent attack continued with the knife raining down on her back. The wounds were deep. Whoever committed this crime had plenty of power and weight to plunge the knife so deeply and be physically able to rip it out again.
‘Where are you up to?’ Matilda asked, interrupting his reading.
‘The bit where Jonathan was found by a neighbour.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Of the book? It’s a bit…’
‘Shit?’ Matilda completed the thought for him.
‘I wasn’t going to say that. It’s a bit…I don’t know…voyeuristic. It goes into a lot of detail. How did this Charlie Johnson get all this stuff?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
Extract from A Christmas Killing by Charlie Johnson
CHAPTER ONE: A DARK AND DEADLY NIGHT
Wednesday December 21, 1994
It had been dark for most of the day. A grey sky heavy with snow loomed over Sheffield and the temperature hadn’t risen above zero all day. A biting wind from the north made it feel colder and whenever a gust blew it felt like needles against bare skin. Work had to be done, and school had to be attended, but when darkness fell the best place to be was indoors, wrapped up warm and in front of a roaring fire.
Wednesday night marked the first in a series of Christmas events at St Augustine’s Church at Brocco Bank. The first night was a carol concert in which local school children would spend forty-five minutes delighting the congregation with their unique rendition of popular Christmas songs. The Harkness family was not a religious one but Stefan and Miranda were well known within the community; Stefan, a Professor of Medical Oncology at the University of Sheffield and Miranda, a GP. Their attendance was expected. Stefan had recently acquired a grant to set up the Lung Cancer Clinical Trials Group. In the New Year he would begin creating synthetic cancerous cells to be injected into laboratory mice. It was a highly controversial study but the growth of the cells and their effect on the body in stimulated climates could yield a better understanding of lung cancer. If successful, further tests involving other cancers could be carried out. Miranda had recently been made a partner in the Whirlow Medical Centre. She was keen to work more in family planning and was in the early stages of setting up a clinic to provide confidential advice to sexually active teenagers. This project had received negative press and many locals saw it as glorifying teenage promiscuity. In January, Miranda, and the other partners at Whirlow, would send a letter to all patients and the neighbouring community to allay any doubts they may have in the programme. Making up the Harkness household were the two children, Matthew aged fifteen and eleven-year-old Jonathan. The brothers were chalk and cheese. They didn’t get on and rarely spent time together. The parents were not worried. They assumed their age difference played a large part in why they didn’t interact and allowed them both free rein to be their own person. Matthew, a typical surly teenager, was excused from attending the concert. Straight from school he went to best friend Philip Clayton’s house, where he stayed for dinner and played in a bedroom on the family computer. He stayed later than usual and at nine o’clock used his friend’s mountain bike to cycle the ten-minute journey home. Judith Clayton, Philip’s mother, waved him off and watched as Matthew cycled down the road and turned left. Once he was out of sight she went back indoors.
The concert started at eight o’clock, and from seven, Miranda was busy getting dressed. In the main bedroom, a half-dressed Stefan was working on a speech he was to give at a departmental Christmas dinner he was attending on December 29th. His speech was to congratulate the team on obtaining the grant which would see them continue their work for the next two years. He wanted to show them how proud