For Reasons Unknown (13 page)

Jonathan’s reaction wasn’t what Matilda had expected. She had been dreading informing him of the brutal death of his brother but he just nodded his head and said, ‘I see’, dispassionately. He listened intently as she asked him to ID the body and allowed himself to be led out of the shop as if going for a pleasant Sunday afternoon drive.

Standing in front of the double doors to the mortuary, Matilda once again checked Jonathan out of the corner of her eye; he looked calm, but he had been immersing himself in the gruesome world of crime fiction for the past decade, if not longer. He should know everything about what went on behind the doors.

Inside the morgue Adele’s assistant was scrubbing vigorously at a stainless-steel tabletop. She had finished cleaning it of its latest occupant and was buffing the steel to a shine.

From her corner office Adele Kean saw her visitors arrive. She leapt up from her seat, quickly swallowing her bite of tuna salad sandwich, and went out to greet them. Her usual friendly smile was replaced with one of sympathy and regret. She nodded a welcome to Matilda and Rory and offered her sympathies to Jonathan. She led them through to an anteroom where the fridges were kept. In the middle of a single table was a body covered with a plain white sheet.

‘I want you to take a good long look,’ Matilda said. ‘Take your time. There is absolutely no rush. I’ll need you to tell me clearly if this is your brother or not. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jonathan, his voice firm and emotionless.

He took a long deep breath and braced himself. His hands were by his side and once again he was tapping his fingers against his thumb.

Matilda took a step back from him and gave the nod to Adele, who unfurled the white sheet to reveal the head and shoulders of the dead man.

His hair was neat and clean, dark brown and combed, not a strand out of place. One eye was covered with a small surgical pad held in place by tape. He had a purple bruise on his lower lip and another pad on his neck. His skin was pale and cold and his mouth was almost smiling. He looked at peace, as if he was in a deep sleep.

Jonathan looked at the dead man. Slowly, he stepped forward and leaned over him to get a better look.

From their positions, only Adele could see his face and noticed that his expression didn’t change.

Seconds passed by, then a whole minute and still the heavy silence entombed them.

‘Jonathan,’ Matilda prompted, her quiet voice resounded off the stainless steel of the fridge doors.

‘Yes. Yes it’s Matthew.’ His voice was broken.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I’d know that face anywhere.’

Jonathan was transfixed on the body of his brother.

Matilda nodded to Adele once again, who covered the body with the white sheet, but still Jonathan refused to look away.

Staring widely, he could not take his eyes from the mound on the trolley.

‘We will, of course, need to ask you a few more questions Jonathan; this time back at the station. It’s just routine. Stephen can come with you if you wish.’

He didn’t hear her. He was locked inside his own mind and fixed on his dead brother. There was a blank expression on his pale face. His eyes darted left and right in quick succession as his brain processed what it was seeing.

Matilda looked at him, into him, to try and read what he was thinking, but she couldn’t. Had he worked so hard on alienating people that even his subconscious refused to give anything away?

‘We don’t have to do this now. Perhaps you’d like to come down to the station tomorrow.’

Again, silence. She looked up at Adele and across at Rory but they were as dumbfounded by Jonathan’s silence as she was.

Stephen stepped forward and gently placed a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder.

‘I’ll make sure he comes to see you tomorrow. I think this has been a bit too much for him.’

‘I understand.’

‘Jonathan, come on, let’s go and get some fresh air.’

It was a while before Jonathan moved, and eventually Stephen had to apply a little pressure and coax him out of the mortuary.

‘Bloody hell, he was mesmerized wasn’t he?’ Rory said when the doors had closed behind them.

‘Can you blame him? He was abused by Matthew for years and the next time he sees him, he is a corpse. I was waiting for Jonathan to jump onto the trolley and start pummelling him.’

‘That thought crossed my mind too.’ Rory smiled. ‘I don’t think I would have been in a rush to stop him either.’

‘Jonathan’s very fragile isn’t he?’ Adele asked. ‘He looks like a strong gust of wind would snap him in half.’

‘What did you get from the PM, Adele?’ Matilda asked after a few long seconds of deep thought.

‘What I expected to really, judging by his injuries. I did get a wee bit excited about some skin samples under his fingernails but it turned out they were his own.’

‘How does that work?’ Rory asked.

‘Well imagine you’re on the ground being kicked black and blue, you lift your arms up to protect the most delicate part of your body, your head. It’s instinctive. He’s had his hands wrapped around his head so firmly that he’s actually broken the skin on his scalp. You can see the nail indentations.’

Adele pulled back the white sheet once again and messed up Matthew’s neat hair with her fingers. She showed the detectives the several small crescent marks made by the deceased’s own fingers.

‘He suffered many blows to the head, chest, and trunk of the body. His liver was almost double the size it should be; it practically exploded. Every rib is broken, his head has been pierced twice, as has his right lung, and his stomach wall is ruptured.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘A professional beating maybe?’ Rory asked.

‘Or a very enthusiastic amateur.’

‘Anything from toxicology?’

‘It’s a bit early for that. I’m hoping it will show he was pissed out of his brain so he didn’t feel much. Oh, his last meal was a KFC, if you’re interested.’

‘Not a very appetizing choice,’ Rory said.

‘How’s the investigation going? Have you got a suspect yet?’ Adele asked. She moved away from the body and Rory followed.

‘Not yet. We’ve got Manchester police searching his flat, going door to door. As soon as we find out what kind of a person he was and what he was doing here in Sheffield we should start putting things together. I wouldn’t mind betting Jonathan knows more than a thing or two.’

‘What?’ Matilda snapped out of her musings and joined them in the main part of the mortuary.

‘I’m just saying they were brothers; how can Jonathan not know anything about his own brother?’

‘Have you actually read any of the statements and reports? They were split up. They haven’t seen each other for the best part of twenty years…’

‘We only have his word for that,’ Rory interrupted.

‘Jonathan is tortured, he’s frightened, he lives on his nerves. He doesn’t have the energy to inflict such violence on another person. Look at the facts before you start making assumptions. James is not a killer.’

‘James? Who’s James?’

The Freudian slip caused the blood to rush from Matilda’s face and she was suddenly as pale as Matthew. She quickly looked at Adele, whose expression spoke a thousand words. Matilda was missing her husband; that much was obvious. He had been torn from her and she would give anything to have him back. As that was not possible she was transferring her emotions, her protecting, loving nature, and putting them on Jonathan. She couldn’t be a loyal and protective wife to James any more, so she would be a loyal and protective mother figure to Jonathan.

Adele took hold of Rory’s arm and led him back into the anteroom. ‘Let me show you something.’

She quickly threw back the sheet. The extent of the injuries to Matthew Harkness was palpable. He was covered in various shades of purple bruises depending on the density and velocity of their making. His body was a textbook for every size, shape, and mass of contusion.

Rory took an intake of breath at the condition of the body. The amount of trauma on one body was difficult to comprehend. This truly was a beating designed to kill rather than a chance mugging by a stranger.

‘Do you know what causes a contusion?’ Adele asked.

‘A good kicking?’

‘It’s damage to the capillaries by trauma, allowing the blood to seep into the surrounding tissue. A bruise is named depending on its size. As you can see here he was beaten so severely that it’s very difficult to tell where one bruise ends and another begins.’

‘Jesus! What kind of person could inflict such violence?’

‘Well you’re the detective, that’s a question only you can answer. Though, of course, it does depend on the circumstances; was he drunk, was he attacked from behind, was there more than one attacker? Though looking at him, he’s over six-feet tall and obviously worked out. If he knew what was happening then you’re looking for someone much bigger and stronger than him. If he was unaware of his attack then it could be anyone.’

‘Including his brother,’ Rory said with a sense of drama in his voice.

‘Rory, listen to Matilda on this. She knows what she’s talking about. Jonathan is probably scared of his own shadow and I can’t see him going out after dark let alone beating someone up.’

‘I think we can all agree that the balance of his mind is greatly disturbed. I personally think anybody is capable of anything if they put their mind to it.’

‘So cynical so young,’ Adele smiled, tapping him slightly on the side of his face.

Maun’s apartment was the mirror image of Jonathan’s, but the style of decoration was completely different. Where Jonathan had opted for a minimalistic approach to furniture, and filled the rest of his home with books, Maun cluttered her flat with sofas, armchairs, antique furniture and ornaments. It was in urgent need of a clear-out and, as Jonathan was her only visitor, she could stand to lose a couple of chairs and open up the floor space. The flat was always hot, too, to the point of causing drowsiness.

By three o’clock, darkness was falling. She guessed Jonathan would be working late as Christmas drew ever near, but she decided to make a start on the moussaka anyway.

Maun’s kitchen was much like her lounge; cluttered, with very little space on the work surfaces to prepare a meal. She had an old-fashioned, handwritten recipe book given to her by her mother. The pages were yellowed and the handwriting fading but it was still useful and one of the few keepsakes she had left.

Tears streamed down her face as she chopped the onions. She stuck out her tongue, as her mother taught her, but it didn’t work, the tears still came. She added the minced lamb and the garlic, maybe too much, as the fumes made her choke. Then she tipped in the tin of tomatoes and the spices and waited for it to simmer.

Moussaka, when made correctly and using an old-fashioned recipe like this one, took a long time to prepare and even longer to cook in the oven. However, she knew it was one of Jonathan’s favourite meals and she knew he didn’t eat very well. She had never been able to smell anything cooking when she’d passed his flat. On a cold night like this he would appreciate the gesture. There was bound to be plenty left over too. He could take it home and warm up the leftovers for the following evening’s meal.

Even if Jonathan was working late he should have been home by now. Maun looked at the clock on the ornament-strewn fireplace. It was 7 p.m. The bookshop had closed more than an hour ago. The weather was awful outside; the roads icy, a low hanging mist, so drivers would be more cautious, but still, he shouldn’t be this late.

She opened the oven door and looked at the moussaka. It had been ready to eat an hour ago but was keeping warm on a very low heat. The once bubbling cheese had dried into a thick brown crust. She slammed the oven door closed, picked up the bowl of curling lettuce and practically threw it into the fridge. Maun didn’t know if she was angry at the wasted meal, the fact Jonathan was late home, or that she didn’t have a clue what was going on in his life any more. Since the news of his childhood home being demolished hit the press he had been more withdrawn and secretive than usual. He didn’t want to visit her and wasn’t interested in her coming to his flat. It was as if the rest of the residents in the block had won Jonathan over to their side and he was purposely blanking her like they did. Was that it? Had the stories of her relationship with her husband finally sunk in and he believed her to be the twisted, cold-hearted bitch everyone claimed her to be? ‘They have no idea who I am,’ she said to her tired reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. Her voice was full of venom and she spat out each word as if it had a bitter taste.

People are far too quick to judge others, especially when they don’t have the full facts. Just because she hadn’t shown any emotion over the death of her husband or given her side of the story to the newspapers when revelation after revelation was revealed, everybody made up their own version of events. Did privacy mean nothing any more? Why must people know every detail about each other?

The stories: Maun resenting her husband’s success; her inability to have children; the humiliation over his many affairs; the refusal to give him a divorce; the mind games she played to drive him, literally, to his death. They weren’t all untrue, but it was the fact people jumped to conclusions that annoyed her the most, and if her two-faced neighbours had broken Jonathan then it would be the final straw. Drastic action was needed.

It wasn’t until Jonathan and Stephen had left the hospital that it dawned on them they had no transport to get back to the bookshop. They set off tentatively on foot. Luckily, they were both wearing layers to keep out the freezing cold air. Jonathan walked at a brisk pace; his steps were heavy and erratic and matched the miasma of thoughts running through his brain.

‘Jonathan, will you please slow down? I’m not as tall as you. I can’t keep up,’ Stephen called out.

Jonathan didn’t hear him. He was in a world of his own. It wasn’t just the torment of seeing a dead body; it was the sudden realization that he was the last surviving Harkness. He had never been bothered by the family unit before, knowing his brother was out there somewhere often filled him with dread and horror, especially knowing he could turn up at any time, but now that thought was gone, he suddenly felt all alone in the world. He wondered who would come to his funeral, who would arrange it?

‘Jonathan, stop!’ Stephen shouted.

Jonathan halted and spun on his heels. ‘What?’

‘I’m cold and I need a drink. Let’s find a pub.’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Well I do. Come on, I’ll show you how, it’s easy.’ He smiled and had a twinkle in his eye as he crossed the road without waiting for Jonathan.

Technically, Stephen and Jonathan were still working and were needed back at the bookshop, but that didn’t stop Stephen ordering a pint of Guinness for him and a mango and passion fruit J2O for Jonathan. Stephen told Jonathan to find a table while he fetched the drinks.

Naturally he chose a table in the darkest corner furthest away from the other early-evening drinkers.

‘How are you feeling?’ Stephen waited until he had sat down, made himself comfortable, and had a good long swig of his drink before beginning the conversation.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied, giving his staple response to every question he had been asked in his life that involved discussing his feelings. A simple ‘I’m fine’ didn’t usually lead to any follow-up questions.

‘It’s OK not to be fine.’

‘Is it OK to be just fine?’

‘Yes but you’ve just identified a dead body who, as it turned out, belongs to your brother…’

‘Estranged brother,’ Jonathan interrupted.

‘But your brother nonetheless.’

‘I haven’t seen him for years. I can’t even remember the last time I did see him.’

‘But he is still your brother; your last surviving relative.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘How does that make you feel?’

He thought for a while before answering. ‘I don’t know. I honestly do not know. I feel kind of…empty.’

‘Empty?’

‘Look, Stephen, I know you want me to be sad, upset, or angry and shout and burst into tears but I can’t do that. He was my brother in name only. He was a horrible man and his death means absolutely nothing to me. I know that sounds bad and makes me out to be cold and hard but I’m sorry. How am I supposed to feel? I know the same about him as you do.’

It was the first time Stephen had heard Jonathan talk so confidently and passionately about something other than books, and he was taken aback by the harsh reality of Jonathan’s feelings of animosity towards his brother.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, don’t be. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t involve you in all this. Thank you for coming with me though. I really appreciate it.’

‘You’re welcome and why shouldn’t you involve me? Everybody needs someone, a friend, or someone to confide in.’

Stephen leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on top of Jonathan’s. When he recoiled, he quickly removed it.

‘I’m fine on my own,’ he said, once again lying. He turned away and took a sip of his ice-cold drink.

‘You can’t go through life on your own.’

‘Why not? I don’t do anyone any harm. I keep myself to myself. I work, I pay my taxes, I’m doing everything right. Why can’t I just be left alone? Who am I hurting?’

‘Yourself.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not natural to be alone, to spend your entire life trapped inside your own mind.’

‘What makes you think surrounding yourself with people makes life better? You read the newspapers; the majority of crimes committed against the person are performed by someone the victim knows; rape, abuse, assault, murder, the victim nearly always knows who is harming them.’

‘What about love, friendship, happiness, and relationships?’

‘Love and happiness do not last forever. You can’t live an entire life with a permanent smile on your face. Whenever there’s a positive item leading the news the first thing people think is that it must be a slow news day. We’re used to the horrors, the wars, the murders and the corruption. It’s all part of our everyday life.’

‘Well it shouldn’t be.’

‘But it is and it doesn’t matter how in love with somebody you are, how many friends you have, one day something will happen that will destroy your way of life and turn it all upside down. Why risk the pain?’

‘All of that’s a part of life. The downsides and the upsides shape us. They make us who we are.’

‘I was made who I am by the age of eleven. My entire world collapsed. Why repair it just for it to get broken again?’

‘Who says it will get broken again?’

‘It’s the natural order of things. We’re born alone and we die alone.’

Jonathan’s defeatist attitude to life was often infectious. Stephen had gone from listening intently to looking despondent. ‘Life is not that black and white, Jonathan. You can’t think like that, you really can’t. People need each other to survive. Allow somebody in to help you. Allow me in.’ He took another large swig from his Guinness. If he ever doubted the use of alcohol as a confidence booster, he didn’t now.

‘You?’

‘Why not?’

‘Look at me; I’m a car crash on legs. My mind is poison. Why would you want to help me?’

‘Because I like you,’ he said. He smiled.

‘What’s to like?’

‘You’re intelligent, well read, passionate about the things you believe in. You’re neat, polite, you don’t conform to society by grabbing the latest technology the minute it’s created. You’re an individual, not one of the flock who has a Facebook page or a Twitter account. There’s something refreshing about a person who doesn’t own a mobile phone.’ Stephen laughed. He took another drink of Guinness and a deep breath. ‘You also have an incredible smile, on the odd occasions you use it, and you’re very good-looking.’

‘What?’

‘You’re good-looking.’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘Because it’s true.’

‘Stephen, I…’

‘Jonathan, I’ve worked alongside you for years. You’re a kind, generous person and as each day has gone by I’ve liked you more and more. You’re hurting, I can see that, and I want to help. I want to take care of you. I want to hold you in my arms and protect you from your demons.’

‘Stephen…’

‘I love you Jonathan.’

With each minute that ticked by, the stronger Maun’s anger grew. It had been a long time since she had actually created a meal from scratch and here she was having her kindness thrown back in her face. She didn’t warrant this behaviour. All she wanted was to sit opposite Jonathan and enjoy a home-cooked meal on a cold winter’s night and chat; was that too much to ask? Evidently it was.

She stormed into the kitchen and pulled open the oven door. Using a tea towel so as not to burn her fingers she pulled the ruined moussaka out and kicked the door closed. The meal had dried up; it was inedible. She pressed the pedal on the bin in the corner of the room and threw the whole thing into it with a heavy thud, including the ceramic dish she had cooked it in.

Her nostrils flared as she took deep breaths of exasperation. Jonathan’s treatment of her was intolerable. She was angry, frustrated, a seething mass of rage. She had the urge to throw something, to smash something, to completely destroy something.

Stephen’s bombshell had come completely out of the blue for Jonathan. He had no idea his boss felt this way about him. They had worked together for years, how had he not known? But then, how could Jonathan even begin to recognize love when he had never known it before. Did the staff at Waterstones know how Stephen felt? If so, why didn’t they say anything? Jonathan hoped they hadn’t all been talking about him behind his back. He didn’t want to be the centre of gossip. He tried hard to fade into the background; why couldn’t people just leave him alone?

Nobody had ever said they loved him before. As much as his Aunt Clara took care of him and welcomed him into her home, he’d always believed, deep down, she had done so out of duty.

Now here he was sitting opposite someone who had just declared their love for him. How was he supposed to react? Was this genuine or was Stephen playing a cruel joke to lure Jonathan into a false sense of security, before finishing him off completely and destroying him?

The silence grew.

Stephen looked into his almost empty Guinness glass.

Jonathan could see that he kept trying to look up, but nerves got the better of him. It was up to him to take the lead.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he asked Stephen.