Читать книгу For Reasons Unknown: A gripping crime debut that keeps you guessing until the last page - Michael Wood - Страница 11

Jonathan Harkness was a timid, frail figure of a man. Standing at six foot tall and a little under ten stone, he looked almost emaciated. His icy blue eyes were sunken and his cheekbones prominent to the point of bursting out of his skin. His thin lips were red and dry. His skin was pale and lacked life, as did his unruly dull hair, which wasn’t styled, merely combed into a neat passable excuse.

He held himself rigid and constantly looked about him, as if frightened of the world he lived in. His body language was cold and unapproachable and his shoulders were permanently hunched. He never allowed himself to relax, not even for a second. He was constantly on his guard.

Jonathan hadn’t been a confident child and preferred his own company to that of his contemporaries. Twenty years ago, when he was eleven years old, his entire world was torn apart with the brutal murder of his parents in cold blood. Everything that happened to him after that night, every decision he made, was born from the fragile mind of a young man who was still unable to break free of that night in December 1994 when he had stood in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom and seen the nightmare unfold before him.

He was grateful for Aunt Clara, who took him away from Sheffield, but once the residents and local press in Newcastle realized who he was, the gossip began, the phone calls began, and they were all after his version of the events.

Eventually it died down and Jonathan could grow up in the shadows, just like he wanted. Now, with the stiff cream envelope in his post box and the logo of the company he knew all too well, his nightmare was about to return. He had been expecting this day to come and now that it had he was surprised by how sanguine he was about it all. It was only a letter after all. What damage could a letter do?

Richards and Rigby Publishing

3 ^rd Floor Muse House

Swansea Avenue

London

EC1 2BF

December 3, 2014

Dear Jonathan,

I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. As I am sure you are aware your childhood home is due to be demolished in the coming days. I have already had many journalists contact me asking if I will be willing to write a feature on the demolition and a review of the murder of your parents.

Coincidently, next summer I will be releasing a new book titled ‘Britain’s Unsolved Murders’ and will be revisiting some of the crimes I have covered in the past. Naturally I would like the Harkness killings to be at the heart of the book.

I have spent time looking online and chatting to journalists and I see you have never told your story. You must realize that yours is a story worth telling and the whole country would certainly still be interested in reading it.

For your own convenience I can be up in Sheffield in just a couple of hours and we can discuss your story and fees in person. Please contact me as soon as possible so we can get the ball rolling.

Kind regards,

Charlie Johnson

Bloody Charlie Johnson! Would he ever be free from this man? And how the hell did he know he had moved back to Sheffield?

Jonathan took Charlie’s letter into the kitchen and set fire to it over the sink. He dropped the burning sheet and watched as the paper curled and the yellow flames destroyed the neatly printed letter. He turned on the cold-water tap and flushed the scorched scraps of paper down the plughole. He knew more letters would come.

He looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall and saw the red ring he’d drawn around tomorrow’s date. He took a deep breath as he felt a tightness in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to get through this.

Tomorrow was a big day. The house he had been brought up in was being demolished. It was the end of an era and, hopefully, a chance to put the ghosts to rest.

He intended to visit the house in Whirlow and watch as it was razed to the ground. He was unsure how he would feel about it. He was never one for showing his emotions, not even in private. He doubted he would cry. There was one worry he had about tomorrow which he could not seem to come to terms with; would his brother Matthew attend the demolition? He hoped not. He was absolutely certain he couldn’t cope with seeing him again.