The Only Secret Left to Keep

by Katherine Hayton

  When she was young, behavior like that would have ended up in a police report and a stern lecture. It wouldn’t take the injured party to call it in, every man or woman who had ever been a parent would have phoned it in. Nowadays, everyone just shrugged and turned away.

  The bus pulled up to the stop—a new one with bright red paint that sparkled in the sunlight. The same color as the fingernail on an old-fashioned femme fatale. Shannon whipped her bus card over the scanner and headed for the back. Not the last section that was raised and made her feel on show, but the seat directly before it. On her left-hand side was the exit door and she sat in the aisle seat so no one would plop their stinking body down beside her.

  Since the earthquakes demolished the city center, the buses had all changed routes so now she would need to change again at a later stop. In the old days, Shannon had like to lean her head against the seat in front of her and use her long hair to form a protective curtain around her face. No matter if she kept track of the progress or not, the bus would stop in the center city. Now, she needed to keep her eyes peeled for the hub and ring the bell.

  No matter how much people insisted that all the changes in the world made things easier, to Shannon every day became more complicated. Each year that passed brought one more challenge that caused her to think harder and pay more attention. She’d blame the long years in prison, but knew in her heart that wasn’t the case.

  The world just traveled faster than she could keep up with. All the youth of today with their eyes fixated on screens and Shannon didn’t even own a mobile phone. Inside prison, she’d fallen out of step—yes. It didn’t explain why so many years later she was still struggling, still running flat out while everyone around her expended no effort at all.

  It was so inescapably a fact of Shannon’s existence that she’d made peace with it. Only by accepting the truth would she be able to move forward at all.

  Then her father decided in his wisdom to take away the only anchor point she had in her life. The momentous sacrifice that Shannon had made, the one she’d given up her youth to, in one second it had been wiped clean, ignored.

  To listen to him grumble about how the police weren’t taking him seriously made Shannon want to strangle him with her bare hands. How dare he wait out her prison sentence before admitting to the crime? What purpose did he think it would serve now that she’d served the debt demanded by society?

  If the state had retained capital punishment, would her father throw himself on her gravesite to confess his wrongdoing?

  Every cell in Shannon’s body swelled with revulsion at his display. The anger, the old rage that she once thought would dissipate, grew until she was subsumed beneath its burning fury.

  Too late, Shannon realized that the bus stop where she needed to change had come and gone. She was already miles away from where she wanted to go. To get out and walk now would mean a good thirty-minute trek in the hot sun to get back there. Her top would be drenched with sweat, and the waist of her jeans would chafe against the skin of her belly by the time she got there.

  Instead of pushing the bell, Shannon sat back and stared mindlessly out of the bus window. The world rushed past in a streak of vibrant colors, melting under the heat of the summer sun.

  It didn’t matter where she went—to the end of the line on the bus route or stranded at some random stop where she didn’t know east from west. As long as Shannon stayed away from her father at the moment, anywhere was fine.

  The rhythm of the bus calmed her nerves, but Shannon could still feel her anger simmering. Shimmering. Glowing like the lit fuse on a stick of dynamite.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Say what you like about the funding for public education, Ngaire only had to wait half an hour before she received a school photograph of Matthew Jenkinson. The secretary to the principal at the academy had warned Ngaire to expect a wait. Given the usual gap that followed the statement, the quick turnaround was a lovely surprise.

  The scanned copy probably lost a lot of the detail from the original, but there was no mistaking the identity. The young Matthew Jenkinson perfectly matched to the older Matthew Jamieson. Unless he had a long-lost twin running around, then she’d found her man.

  As well as the solo photograph, the school secretary had helpfully supplied a picture of the entire class. The stiff postures, some students staring like deer in the headlights, some shamelessly mugging, spoke of every school photo that Ngaire had ever seen.

  George Kenton and Jessie Collingwood sat in the back row, among the taller of the boys in the class. Some unlucky sod in the first row who didn’t look like puberty had taken a firm grip yet sat in front of Matthew Jenkinson in the middle. A pair of rabbit ears poked above his head.

  Ngaire tipped the scan toward the light and bent forward until her nose almost poked the paper. She probably needed glasses, though that wasn’t an appointment she’d make without a prompt. It was impossible to tell from the image, but the hand either belonged to Jessie or to an unnamed boy to Matthew’s right.

  A minor signal, maybe nothing to worry about. On the contrary, it might speak to bullying of Matthew. Add that to the sexual confusion that Jenna had hinted at, and he was a target, ready to be singled out and picked off by older and more respected boys.

  A link, a lead, but after the excitement died down, Ngaire didn’t know any better how the pieces fitted together. She was looking for the killer of Sam Andie, not a friend. Maybe Matthew knew something more than he was admitting to, but she’d pushed him hard already and got nowhere.

  Even if Ngaire came up with more evidence, the chances were that unless she found a smoking gun the next time someone interviewed Matthew, it would be a member of the Dunedin police.

  Much as she might have pushed him during their brief interview, Ngaire didn’t think that it was inevitable that Sam Andie’s murder would be solved. Each time she tried to think the case through, she butted straight into the impenetrable wall of time. Files missing, memories hazy, evidence lost, or nobody had bothered to collect it in the beginning. A half-assed investigation that trailed away into nothing because it was easier to believe a lie than uncover the truth.

  Until now, Ngaire had reassured herself that she could get a result. If she kept hounding and chasing and questioning and searching, she could ferret out the information and solve the case. After all, hadn’t she done that exact same thing a few years ago? Back then, the fact that no one believed the case could be solved hadn’t stopped her doing exactly that.

  Now that she thought about it, though, Ngaire conceded that she hadn’t solved anything. All that happened was that she’d dug around in the painful memories from that time until the murderer turned up dead. If she’d stayed away, the same conclusion might have come about from a timely article or an off-hand comment striking the wrong nerve.

  For all that she believed in the process of investigation, there were limits. Of physical evidence, of eye-witness memories, of time. Over thirty-six long years, the likelihood of solving the case had swung from good all the way down to dismal. If the needle turned any further into the red, that would quickly turn into no chance at all.

  Even a confession this far down the track might not yield a conviction. Just look at Bob, desperately trying to be found guilty of two crimes and no one giving him the satisfaction.

  Her love life was shot, her career didn’t even have the support of her closest leader, and the case she’d invested energy in would end up shut away in a cardboard box. Failure dragged at the edges of Ngaire’s psyche, commanding her to surrender to the inevitable.

  She added all the notes into Sam Andie’s investigation file and wished she could recapture that feeling of triumph again.

  When Bob Rickards walked into the Christchurch Central Police Station with his lawyer in tow and told the reception desk that he wanted to recant his confession, nobody was shocked. The DSS buzzed with the news while she assembled the team, but when she told them what had happened, the most enthused res
ponse that Ngaire could see was a shrug.

  Three days under the new team and it looked like the excitement would soon die away, along with the last traces of the investigation. Bob was in the interview room already, left to stew there while Harmond arranged the interview team.

  “Angel and Ngaire,” the DSS said, shocking Ngaire and causing a pained expression to cross Mona’s face at the dismissal. Ngaire had felt the confused frown that Mona now sported on her own face on many occasions. She should hold onto the feeling she had now, that this was no reward, just another chore. Then the next time someone else was picked for a job she’d earmarked for herself, Ngaire could remember that it didn’t make anybody feel special.

  Unlike the last debrief before Bob’s interview, no one put forward any questions they were desperate for answers to. Ngaire supposed that “What the hell were you thinking?” was top of everybody’s list but it was a faint hope they’d get a rational response to that.

  When she entered the room, Ngaire was acutely aware that on the other side of the mirrored glass were the DSS and another officer. She hadn’t seen who got the duty this time, although she hoped it was Mona being given the chance to see for herself that she wasn’t missing out.

  After the quick formalities, the lawyer began to speak for Bob, who sat back with his hands folded in his lap. The man didn’t meet either Ngaire’s or Angel’s gaze, choosing instead to fixate on an empty space of air just above the table.

  “I hope you understand that my client, in a state of extreme physical stress, made a decision that he apologizes for. He didn’t mean to cause any trouble for the police or to waste anyone’s time.”

  “And yet he did both,” Ngaire said, deliberately stating a challenge.

  Mr. Rickards still didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fixed on nothing.

  “If you understand that his daughter’s conviction and subsequent prison sentence has been the worst thing in his life to endure, I hope it goes some way toward understanding my client’s mindset. He thought he was dying and he wanted to clear his daughter’s name. The false confession was impetuous and foolhardy.”

  Yeah, it was. Ngaire kept the retort caged behind her clenched teeth. If it hadn’t been for this roadblock, her old team might be further along in the Sam Andie case. Once again, somebody had overlooked Sam in the pursuit of a different goal.

  “The wasted time and resources come with a cost,” Ngaire said. “Does your client understand that at the very least, he’ll now be charged with wasting police time?”

  “I would hope that Mr. Rickards age and well-being be considered before any charges are laid.”

  “Your client had the opportunity to think of that himself before he confessed to a terrible crime that he’s now claiming to be innocent of,” Angel retorted. It impressed Ngaire that he could keep his face still and serene while an accusation spewed out of his mouth.

  “My daughter is so angry,” Mr. Rickards said. “I don’t understand why she’s so filled with hatred for me, but I can’t leave here with the charges still hanging over my head. If I go home now with additional charges pending, she’ll be so wild.”

  Ngaire frowned at the man, bewildered that he didn’t see how his actions would be a slap in Shannon’s face.

  “You do understand that your daughter served a fifteen-year prison sentence for the crime you confessed to?” she asked, uncertain if Bob comprehended that at all.

  He nodded, but his expression was lost and confused. Ngaire tried again.

  “If you wanted to confess to this crime, or if—God forbid—you did it, why did you wait until your daughter was released on parole? What stopped you admitting your guilt thirty years ago and sparing her the life sentence?”

  Bob opened his mouth to answer, but his lawyer got there first. “My client didn’t actually commit the crime he was confessing to, remember? To question him as to why he didn’t confess to a crime he didn’t commit earlier, doesn’t make any sense.”

  “None of this makes any sense,” Angel said. “I’m not sure I follow anything that’s happening.”

  “False confessions are quite common,” the lawyer said. “I hope my client won’t be unfairly punished for a phenomenon that’s well-documented.”

  “Except we don’t have anything to say that Mr. Rickards wasn’t responsible for these murders,” Ngaire said. Her anger and indignation rose with each minute, for Shannon if not for herself. “Some of the findings we discovered on revisiting this case do call Shannon’s conviction into question. I understand your client is recanting his confession, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it, any more than admitting his guilt meant he did.”

  Bob appeared to be losing track of the conversation. He furrowed his brow while his nostrils flared. The clenching of his jaw drew his earlobes down. “But I didn’t kill anybody,” he said after a moment’s thought. “My confession was a mistake.”

  “Yet yesterday, you would have said the opposite,” Angel said. He gave a quick glance at Ngaire, and she nodded. “You understand that your word doesn’t mean as much after that.”

  “But I wasn’t even there,” Mr. Rickards said. He’d lost interest in gazing into thin air. Now his eyes darted from Ngaire to Angel and back again, searching their faces for a clue into what was happening.

  Ngaire’s pulse sped up, she could feel it ticking in her throat. Don’t screw this up. She leaned forward, catching Bob’s gaze and locking onto it so he couldn’t turn away.

  “That’s not what Matthew Jenkinson said.”

  “Ngaire!” She jumped as the voice yelled close inside her ear. Ngaire had forgotten that the small earpiece was still inserted, but she managed to keep her eyes fixed on Bob Rickards. His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open in shock. A fierce dart of pleasure stabbed through her chest as she watched him sort through responses to pick what he should say.

  The voice in her ear again, “Follow up. Hard.”

  How much could she wing this one? If she stepped too far over the line, the evidence would be inadmissible. Still, if she didn’t reach out far enough, then the case would gain nothing of interest. Better that she validated the connection. A court case was the Crown Prosecution’s job to sort out.

  “We caught up to him down in Dunedin, though he’s calling himself under a different name now.” Ngaire laughed and shook her head. “He’s still cagey, but Matthew isn’t nearly as smart as he thinks he is.” She waited for a beat, then added, “And neither are you.”

  Bob’s lawyer leaned forward, a concerned expression on his face. “I’d like to take a moment to confer—”

  “Matthew wouldn’t drop me in it like that,” Bob interrupted. “I don’t know what he’s said to you, but he’s a liar.”

  The lawyer reached over, laying a hand on Bob’s forearm that was promptly shaken off.

  “No, don’t stop me now,” Bob said to the man, then turned back to Ngaire. “Whatever he’s feeding you is just a pile of garbage. There’s no way that he could tell you the truth, so if you believe him, then you’re the one who’s stupid.”

  Bob leaned back in his chair, glowering, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “It’s not my fault those boys are dead, and neither is it my girl, Shannon’s. If you’re already talking to Matthew Jenkinson, then you should bloody well ask him whose fault it is.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The police were on his trail. Matthew could feel their hot breath on the back of his neck even though the morning was cold. He rubbed his hand over the area, tickling the small hairs there and feeling the warmth of sickness, the high temperature of a mounting fever.

  Emilia was still entertaining the two cops in his front room while he sat in the bathroom, feeling queasy. He knew he was in trouble when one of the officers poked his head in here before giving the okay. He’d checked the size of the window and compared it to Matthew’s frame.

  He was in so much shit that they thought he’d do a runner out the toilet window. That told Matthew everything he nee
ded to know.

  For years, he’d waited, his nerves on full alert at every knock on the door, every shrill ring of the phone.

  “You’re always so startled, Matthew,” Emilia had told him once. “It’s like you think that God himself will be on the other line.”

  Not God himself, not yet, but it appeared it was time for judgment.

  Matthew pressed his hot eyes into the palms of his hands. As he exerted more force, patterns of red and purple exploded into starbursts of gold and white before fading back into black. He should have taken the opportunity to pick up stakes and leave while he had the chance. By now, he could be in a different country or a different part of this one at the very least—making new friends, establishing a new venture.

  Instead, he’d chosen to stay, and look how that had turned out. Locked inside a bathroom, scared to walk outside in case this was the last time he walked anywhere as a free man.

  Perhaps they don’t know everything. It could be for speeding, or maybe the police have gotten the wrong guy.

  The snakes coiling and writhing in Matthew’s stomach told him that wasn’t the case.

  For a shocked moment, he let his thoughts stray back to the bad night, the black night that he never thought about. He saw Sam in the dressing room at the nightclub—Matthew was too young to attend, but it hadn’t taken him long to figure out how to sneak in the back.

  Sam Andie had been glorious to look at and smart to boot, but most of all what he’d been was kind. Never mind that he didn’t know Matthew, Sam had spent hours talking to him. For hours, he’d reassured a frightened and confused teenage boy that everything he was going through had been experienced by someone else before him.

  That had been Matthew’s paramount fear. Not that he’d been beaten up or ridiculed for being different, that happened every day. No, his concern lay in being so far beyond the normality of society that no one anywhere at any time would ever understand what Matthew went through.