For Reasons Unknown by Michael Wood Page A

like you to tell us your story.’
    Jonathan sighed. ‘Why?’
    ‘As I said, we’re having another look at the case and I’ve been through the statements, reports, and paperwork and there doesn’t seem to be a statement from you. Did you ever make one?’
    Jonathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Subconsciously he was tapping each of the four fingers on his left hand against his thumb. After tapping twice with each finger, eight taps, he stopped for a second before starting again.
    Matilda recognized the signs of anxiety; she should do, anxiety was a permanent house guest for her. She looked across at Rory but he was still staring at the books. She wondered if her traits were as obvious.
    ‘After it happened,’ he began. His voice broke. ‘After it happened I was in a state of shock. I didn’t speak for a very long time. The police came to see me many times. They kept bringing different kinds of specialists, all of them trying to get me to talk in their own unique way but it didn’t work. I seem to remember one woman using hand puppets.’ He gave a nervous smile at the memory.
    ‘How long was it before you talked again?’
    ‘About eighteen months.’
    ‘And you’d left Sheffield by then?’
    ‘Yes. I was living with my aunt up in Newcastle.’
    ‘When did you move back to Sheffield?’
    ‘About five years ago I think.’
    ‘Why did you decide to come back?’
    Jonathan lowered his head. ‘My aunt died, and as much as I enjoyed living in Newcastle it was always her home, not mine. Sheffield is all I know.’
    Matilda nodded then changed the subject. ‘On the night your parents died…’
    ‘They were killed,’ Jonathan interrupted with a solid, almost stern voice. ‘They didn’t die; they were killed.’
    ‘Sorry. On the night they were killed, you were all getting ready to attend a carol concert, weren’t you?’
    Jonathan rolled his eyes. ‘Do I really need to go through all this again? I’m sure with all your reports and Charlie Johnson’s book you can piece it all together.’
    ‘Have you read Charlie Johnson’s book?’
    ‘Yes. My aunt bought a copy. She wanted to know how accurate it was.’
    ‘How accurate is it?’
    ‘In places it’s so spot on it’s like he was there making notes.’
    ‘Did you talk to Mr Johnson at the time of him writing it?’
    ‘No. He tracked me down to Newcastle and wrote to us and phoned us a few times. He even sent a signed blank cheque in the post asking us to name our price.’
    ‘Did you?’
    ‘No. Aunt Clara tore it up and posted the pieces back to him.’ Jonathan smiled at the memory. ‘I received a letter from him a few days ago actually. He’s working on an updated version and wants to interview me. How he found out I’m back in Sheffield is beyond me.’
    ‘Did you reply?’
    ‘Why would I do that?’
    Matilda took another sip of her coffee, it was delicious. ‘Getting back to the night of the murders, where were you in the house at the time?’
    ‘I was in my bedroom,’ he replied, taking a deep breath, preparing himself to relive the horror.
    ‘And what happened to make you leave your bedroom?’
    ‘Nothing. I was getting ready and my dad was going to tie my bow tie. I went across the landing and into their bedroom and just found him slumped over the desk.’
    ‘Was he dead?’
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘What did you do then?’
    ‘I’m not sure. The next thing I remember is my mum coming up the stairs having a go at me for not being dressed. Somehow I’d got blood on my hands. She looked at them and asked if I’d cut myself but I didn’t answer. She looked at me and I guess she could tell by the look on my face that something must have happened. She sent me back to my room.’
    ‘Did you go?’
    ‘Of course. She told me to go to my room, close the door behind me, and not to come back until she came for me.’
    ‘What happened then?’
    ‘In my bedroom there was a closet with a chest of drawers in it. I used to hide