not leap to the defence of Stefan and Miranda when the subject of their parenting skills was brought up. “They were a brilliant couple, hardworking and totally dedicated to their careers. However, I think having Jonathan was a mistake. Miranda never said as much, but reading between the lines, he was an accident, and an abortion would not have looked good for her career.”
‘I wonder if Jonathan has read this,’ Matilda asked aloud. ‘I bloody hope not. Imagine reading that you were a mistake. Poor sod.’
She poured herself another glass of vodka and downed the double shot in one gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sniffled. She was crying. She wasn’t crying for her husband though, she was crying for Jonathan Harkness; a man she was yet to meet, yet a man she had a great deal of sadness for.
Despite never wanting children, for a split second, as she looked into her husband’s beaming face, she wondered what they would have been like as parents. She had never considered herself maternal, but if she had known James was going to die after five years of marriage she would have spent her whole married life pregnant, making sure she had something of him to cherish.
Bloody hell! Was everything going to bring her back to James and her sad pathetic excuse for a life? She flicked through the paperback and stopped at a different section.
‘
Chapter Eight: Alternative Theories
,’ she began again. ‘
Despite Stefan Harkness being a leading authority in cancer drug trials in the western world his work often came under close scrutiny and caused a great deal of controversy. By the time he was thirty he had already been before three government select committees to justify his work.
‘
At the time of his death in December 1994, news of his current work was well known in the scientific field and by interested parties. The fact he was testing on animals was no secret and he had received threats to halt his work or “suffer the consequences of your deplorable actions” as one rather prosaic letter written in pig’s blood said.
‘
In the weeks leading up to his death Stefan Harkness had received abusive phone calls, anonymous letters, and a box containing the rotting corpses of three dozen mice was delivered to the house addressed to the Harkness children. Despite extensive investigations by South Yorkshire Police none of the activists, who eventually held up their hands to sending the hateful mail, were considered credible suspects for the double murder.
’
Matilda put the book face down on the sofa next to her and looked up at the wedding photo. ‘Well we knew that didn’t we James? This Charlie Johnson bloke certainly seems to be a font of knowledge. I wonder who his source was.’
Should she read on or have another drink of vodka? She looked from the bottle to the book and back again. The alcohol won.
Jonathan Harkness sat in his reading room. He was rereading
On Beulah Height
by Reginald Hill for the third time. He was just over halfway through.
Next to him on the small table was a large mug of tea – milk with one sugar – and two digestive biscuits on a square of kitchen roll. He had been reading for over two hours.
The door to the room was closed and the only light came from the thin standard lamp, which was behind the wing chair and loomed over him.
When he came to the end of the chapter he looked up at the mass of books that surrounded him. He was content here. He was safe in this room. In reality his mind was diseased, and forever tortured him with paranoia and depressive thoughts, but in this room he was safe. He could live the life of the characters, interact with them, help Dalziel and Pascoe solve the crime. His lips spread into a smile and then he returned to the paperback and continued reading.
Directly above, Maun Barrington was rereading a story in the local newspaper. It had arrived at lunchtime. She was shocked by the amount of space the paper had given to the story,
‘I wonder if Jonathan has read this,’ Matilda asked aloud. ‘I bloody hope not. Imagine reading that you were a mistake. Poor sod.’
She poured herself another glass of vodka and downed the double shot in one gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sniffled. She was crying. She wasn’t crying for her husband though, she was crying for Jonathan Harkness; a man she was yet to meet, yet a man she had a great deal of sadness for.
Despite never wanting children, for a split second, as she looked into her husband’s beaming face, she wondered what they would have been like as parents. She had never considered herself maternal, but if she had known James was going to die after five years of marriage she would have spent her whole married life pregnant, making sure she had something of him to cherish.
Bloody hell! Was everything going to bring her back to James and her sad pathetic excuse for a life? She flicked through the paperback and stopped at a different section.
‘
Chapter Eight: Alternative Theories
,’ she began again. ‘
Despite Stefan Harkness being a leading authority in cancer drug trials in the western world his work often came under close scrutiny and caused a great deal of controversy. By the time he was thirty he had already been before three government select committees to justify his work.
‘
At the time of his death in December 1994, news of his current work was well known in the scientific field and by interested parties. The fact he was testing on animals was no secret and he had received threats to halt his work or “suffer the consequences of your deplorable actions” as one rather prosaic letter written in pig’s blood said.
‘
In the weeks leading up to his death Stefan Harkness had received abusive phone calls, anonymous letters, and a box containing the rotting corpses of three dozen mice was delivered to the house addressed to the Harkness children. Despite extensive investigations by South Yorkshire Police none of the activists, who eventually held up their hands to sending the hateful mail, were considered credible suspects for the double murder.
’
Matilda put the book face down on the sofa next to her and looked up at the wedding photo. ‘Well we knew that didn’t we James? This Charlie Johnson bloke certainly seems to be a font of knowledge. I wonder who his source was.’
Should she read on or have another drink of vodka? She looked from the bottle to the book and back again. The alcohol won.
Jonathan Harkness sat in his reading room. He was rereading
On Beulah Height
by Reginald Hill for the third time. He was just over halfway through.
Next to him on the small table was a large mug of tea – milk with one sugar – and two digestive biscuits on a square of kitchen roll. He had been reading for over two hours.
The door to the room was closed and the only light came from the thin standard lamp, which was behind the wing chair and loomed over him.
When he came to the end of the chapter he looked up at the mass of books that surrounded him. He was content here. He was safe in this room. In reality his mind was diseased, and forever tortured him with paranoia and depressive thoughts, but in this room he was safe. He could live the life of the characters, interact with them, help Dalziel and Pascoe solve the crime. His lips spread into a smile and then he returned to the paperback and continued reading.
Directly above, Maun Barrington was rereading a story in the local newspaper. It had arrived at lunchtime. She was shocked by the amount of space the paper had given to the story,
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