For Reasons Unknown: A gripping crime debut that keeps you guessing until the last page

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.

Chapter 4 (#u2c0f2d3c-643d-51d2-8892-56f73442f821)

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 he was and he needed the right words. He had already spent several sleepless nights poring over his notepad yet he was still unhappy with the tone. The youngest son, Jonathan, had been left to his own devices and was getting changed in his bedroom. However, he still wasn’t dressed with only fifteen minutes before they had to leave. His mother harshly chastised him to stop playing with his Lego and get dressed.

The Harkness family never made it to the carol concert. Their absence was noticed by many.

After the children had finished singing, a reading was given and the vicar spent ten minutes congratulating everyone involved for such a splendid evening. He then went on to read out the events due to take place over the next few days culminating in midnight Mass on Christmas Eve followed by a very special service on Christmas morning. In the hall at the back of the church, a buffet had been laid on by the Women’s Guild. Once everyone had aired their views on the angelic singing and choice of carols, the conversation turned to the absence of Stefan and Miranda Harkness.

On her way home from the concert, family friend Aoife Quinn drove to the Harkness’s house in Whirlow to see why they hadn’t attended. When she arrived the house was in darkness apart from one room at the back of the house, Jonathan’s bedroom. Ms Quinn knocked on the front door several times without any reply before going to the back of the house and knocking on the kitchen door. Again, she received no answer. She looked up at the window, seeing the light seeping through the gap in the curtains; she knew something was wrong. She tried the handle but the door was locked. She could not leave and go home without finding out what, if anything, had happened. Aoife crossed the road to neighbour Andrea Bickerstaff, and asked if she had a spare key. She did but they decided to phone the house first rather than just walk in. Andrea admitted she had not seen any member of the Harkness family leave the house since Miranda had come home earlier in the afternoon. She telephoned and waited as it rang continuously. The answering machine was not turned on; something Miranda always did when they left the house. It was obvious something was amiss. By now it was almost ten o’clock. Andrea Bickerstaff joined Aoife Quinn and together they went back across the road. Andrea only had a key to the back door. As she put the key in the lock she found there was an obstruction. She forced the key hard and a clang was heard on the other side. A key was already in the lock and Andrea had pushed it out. Andrea went in first and made her way through the ground floor of the house, first calling out for Miranda and then for Stefan. Aoife followed and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Sitting on the top step was eleven-year-old Jonathan. He was pale and cold and in a state of undress. Aoife called Andrea over and they both looked up at the boy. He was unresponsive to their calls. Aoife walked up the stairs slowly and tried to get the boy’s attention. She asked if he was all right and where his parents were, but he did not reply. Eventually, she was close enough to see the dried blood on his hands. Fearing the worst, she instructed Andrea to take Jonathan downstairs but not to touch anything or allow him to wash his hands. Tentatively, she placed a comforting arm around his bony shoulders and eased him up. She almost had to carry him down the stairs. Once they were out of sight, Aoife continued her climb. She had been in the house many times before and knew her way around. At the top of the stairs she turned left and entered the main bedroom where Stefan and Miranda slept. She was stopped in her tracks by the sight of horror which opened out before her. Stefan was slumped over his desk. He was dressed in a white shirt, black socks and black boxer shorts. His back was covered in blood. He had been stabbed once in the back of the neck. A pool of blood surrounded him on the floor. Aoife steadied herself by putting a hand on the door frame. After a moment to compose herself she walked further into the room. Her eyes were drawn to the high blood sprays on the wall and ceiling above the bed. As she made her way around the bed she saw Miranda on the floor. She was dressed in a conservative floor-length ivy-coloured dress. It was soaked in her blood and torn where the knife had cut through to slash at her body. She had been stabbed eight times in the chest and fourteen times in the back. Aoife was brought back to reality from her state of shock by Andrea calling from the bottom of the stairs. She wanted to know what was happening. Aoife quickly ran out of the room and said they needed to call the police.

A murder investigation was launched and Jonathan was taken to hospital. He had no physical injuries but he was unresponsive. He did not react to any test by doctors and did not blink when a light was shone in his eyes. He was in a catatonic state. He was placed in a private room at Sheffield’s Children’s Hospital and guarded by a police officer who stayed with him all night. A missing person investigation was simultaneously launched to seek the whereabouts of fifteen-year-old Matthew Harkness. Neighbours saw him leave the house that morning to go to school but nobody remembered him coming home. In the days that followed, police investigated the lives of the Harkness family both personal and professional. Media interest was high and the story had the whole country gripped. Stefan’s sister Clara came down from Newcastle to look after Jonathan, who, after three days, had not uttered a word. Matthew was still missing.

‘I don’t like this,’ Rory said, putting the book down.

‘What? Is it badly written?’

‘Not just this book, the whole true crime thing. I find it gruesome. It’s so detailed and graphic. And another thing, how did Charlie Johnson know all the little details, like Jonathan’s mum shouting at him for playing Lego? Who told him that?’

‘I thought the same thing. Maybe he’s just using creative licence. Have you noticed what’s missing out of all of these files?’

‘No. What?’

‘A statement from Jonathan.’

‘Well, he went mute didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but for how long? Surely he started speaking again at some point. There’s a psychiatric report on him suffering from shock but that’s it. From the file’s point of view his aunt took him back with her to Newcastle and that’s it. I’m beginning to see why this case was never solved.’

Rory went back to reading the book, his lips moving slightly over each word. ‘Do you have those photographs of Jonathan taken at the scene?’

Matilda had been reading the post-mortem reports. She lifted a folder and then another, eventually finding the pack of pictures he wanted.

Rory rifled through them. He was unfazed by the blood-stained bed, the saturated carpet, and blood-spattered ceiling. Towards the back of the pack he found the pictures of Jonathan he was looking for.

Jonathan had been dressed like his father: white shirt, underwear but no trousers. They were caught by their attacker unawares. The pictures of the eleven-year-old showed him with a blank expression on his face. His hands were red with drying blood.

‘What do you make of this?’ He held up one of the photographs and waited while Matilda marked her place in the report with a Post-it note. She took the picture from him and studied it carefully.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘His hands.’

‘OK. Go on.’

‘Why are his hands covered in blood?’