All Your Secrets

by Ayre, Mark

  23

  The blade withdrew. Somewhere nearby a door clicked open, but Owen wouldn’t reach him quick enough. His time was up unless—

  An approaching car. Swinging around the corner and driving straight down the tunnel of parked cars towards them. The attacker looked up, eyes narrowed, distracted enough for James to place two hands on his chest and shove hard.

  Attacker fell back, emitting a nasty, angry noise. It looked as though he might topple, but he kept his balance. Fists clenched, he came fast for James, stopping as he glanced in the car. Like a magic trick, the blade disappeared, along with Attacker’s rage.

  James took a step back and out of the road, Attacker remaining, waiting until the car stopped an inch from his knees.

  It was police.

  Attacker muttered something under his breath.

  Out stepped Chris Lindelof, blessing Attacker with his stony expression before switching to James, treating each of them as equal scum.

  “Officer,” Attacker said, nodding a greeting.

  “Paul. What’s going on here?”

  James felt his stomach lurch. If these two were friends, the cop might walk away, leaving James to the mercy of Paul. But Lindelof didn’t look as though he liked Paul. Then again, James got the impression Lindelof wouldn’t look as though he liked the love of his life.

  “I’m on a job,” Paul said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Lindelof looked at James.

  “I need to talk to Mr Perry here, so you’ll have to wait.”

  “I can’t do that. You know what it’s like. Boss wants something, boss gets something. I come back and say, ‘sorry you’ve got to wait’, I’ll be flayed alive.”

  “Well then, guess you’ll be flayed alive. Perry, in the car.”

  James didn’t hesitate. He stepped towards the car and Paul stepped towards him. Lindelof got in the way.

  “I won’t warn you again.”

  “No worries,” Paul said. “He’s got something of mine. A recording device. I’ll just grab it and be on my way.”

  “You’re not grabbing anything.”

  “Fine, fine. He can chuck it me. Oi, Perry, send it over.”

  He stepped forward, and this time Lindelof pushed him back. Here came that anger again and James caught the twitch of Paul’s hand, but the knife remained hidden.

  “You don’t want to do this, Mr Officer of the Law.”

  “Yes, Paul, I think I do.”

  They got in the car, leaving Paul glued to the road, angry eyes fixed on them as they reversed away. He seemed stuck so fast if another car sped this way, James doubted he would move, even if the car hit him. That was fine. James was glad to be gone.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Lindelof didn’t answer, but that was okay. They drove in the direction of the police station, and James was glad, relieved. Before there had been a dilemma. He knew the right thing was handing the device to the police, but for his safety, he needed to give it to Mel. Now Mel was gone, and while Davis would still be after him, there was less of an immediate threat there, especially if Davis was arrested.

  He retrieved the device, turning it over and over in his hand. Staring at the screen. His finger travelled towards that play button again, determined to ensure he had the right item.

  In the rear view, Lindelof’s eyes caught his and narrowed.

  “What are you doing?”

  James didn’t answer. His finger was on the button, and before he could second-guess himself, he pressed play.

  Low grunting. Bad lighting. An old man in the throes of passion on a girl who might have been passed out.

  The tape finished. It had been at the end already.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Lindelof spun and almost drove straight into a tree. James grabbed the seat in shock as Lindelof regained control of the car. The device flew from his hand, and he had to scrabble on the floor to get it.

  “Wrong one,” he muttered.

  Wrong one. Wrong one. He had the Megan-Davis sex tape. The last thing he needed to see and why did he have that? How did Tahir get it when Tahir was supposed to have the evidence against the Chappell’s? Had he fucked his theory again? Where had it gone wrong?

  The ideas churning yet again. Placing each component into the machine for processing. Piecing them together in different ways. Trying to work out where he had gone wrong. He was close. Sure of that. He glanced down at the tape in his hands. It had been right at the end.

  The pieces began moving, rolling, tumbling over each other and falling into place. Lindelof was staring at him in the rearview again. His hands clasped tight to the wheel, going white. The car sped past the crammed together buildings of the city and towards open land in the distance.

  “Yang told me a bit about you,” James said, still staring at the silver device in hand. “Told me you weren’t doing so well. Impulsive. Impatient. Struggling to find that work-life balance. Must be difficult, being a dad and a cop.”

  Lindelof’s eyes were on the road, but if possible his hands were clasped even tighter to the wheel. The skin even whiter, threatening to rip from his knuckles.

  “It must have been difficult watching Yang doing so well when you couldn’t get it right. Hard watching her put together the catch of the decade. Nabbing Jane and Davis Chappell on substantial sentences. I hope you were supportive?”

  James stared at the back of Lindelof's head.

  “You weren’t though, were you?”

  Still, the car flashed on. The last of the buildings left behind. City fading into the distance, countryside popping up from nowhere. James withdrew his phone and sent two texts. Lindelof didn’t appear to notice. Or, if he did, he’d decided it no longer mattered.

  “How did you do it?” James asked, then. “Actually, doesn’t matter. I probably wouldn’t understand anyway. I can be a little thick.”

  He drummed his finger on the seat beside him. Trees and bales of hay whipped past. It was crazy how fast the city disappeared, and the countryside took over.

  “Yang thinks she’s surrounded by incompetence. Told me her case collapsed because evidence was lost from within, but she doesn’t get it, does she? Evidence wasn’t lost it was taken. Made to disappear. You destroyed the case that had been built and then—with everyone down in the dumps, you found a new source. They wouldn’t be able to get back the lost sentences, but they could secure a few years behind bars for Jane Chappell. It was nothing compared to what you would have had, but with things being as they were, it was a major victory. You got the plaudits, and overtook Yang. You must have been pleased.”

  James had started to wonder if Lindelof would drive forever, but that wasn’t the plan. They pulled into a lay-by. To their right was a fence that led into a field and up towards a huge tree. Lindelof stepped out of the car and James tried his own door. It wouldn’t open for him, but it did for the cop.

  “Arrest a lot of children, do you?”

  He was faking confidence. His heart was hammering, his terror compounded when Chris reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun.

  “Tell me that’s a water pistol.”

  “Get out.”

  James didn’t move.

  “This isn’t America. Why do you even have a gun? Come on, what are you playing at?”

  Lindelof gave him dead eyes, then his hands came out, grabbing James’ shirt and yanking him forward with surprising force. He felt his back hit the fence and cried out. Then the gun was in his face.

  “No more chances. Get up and get over that fence or I’ll shoot you here. I’m not bothered.”

  James stood, tried to think of the magic words, couldn’t. He climbed the fence.

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” James said as they walked. Babbling, which he wasn’t used to, and couldn’t stop. “I get why you want to get rid of me, but why you? I mean, Paul was going to take me away. Going to deal with me. You didn’t have to get involved, so why bother?”

>   “Stop here.”

  They had reached a tree. James stared at the bark. A lovely dark brown, and any second it would be coated with the red of his blood. James thought the mix would probably work. Not that he would get the chance to enjoy it.

  “Turn around.”

  James hesitated, then did as he was asked, literally staring into the barrel of the gun.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Lindelof didn’t say anything.

  “Come on, this is really because I found out you’re a bent cop? Really?”

  “It has nothing to do with that.”

  “Then what?”

  “No more,” the gun came up, then went down. “On your knees.”

  “I’ve never understood why people say that. Why does it matter if you shoot me standing, on my knees, or on my front? It’s a movie thing, right? Sounds good. Builds suspense but really, what does it matter?”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

  The gun came up, barrel pointing at James’ forehead. His heart hammered and his stomach churned. He tried to piece together what was happening. Why did Lindelof want to kill him? Had he seen something?

  The cop was breathing heavily. Any second he would shoot.

  Why was this happening? It had to do with the tape because James understood that now. Davis’ abuse of Megan hadn’t been the point of that tape. It was an added bonus. It had been set up to capture something else. The conversation between Lindelof and Davis. That was what Michael had. That was the evidence Davis was after, not because it would get him thrown in jail as had happened to Jane, but because in it Davis confessed to being the one to inform on Jane.

  But why did that mean Lindelof had to risk everything killing James when Paul would have done it anyway? What else was on that tape? The confession, the sex, and Harris threatening Davis over—

  And he understood.

  “Stop,” he said, and Lindelof hesitated. “I get it. I know what you’ve seen, but it wasn’t me. Paul showed me the picture of Mel, but I didn’t kill her. I never even saw the body in person. Lindelof, I promise, I didn’t kill your daughter.”

  He flinched, his features contorted with rage as James spoke the name. Confirmation if confirmation was needed, but it wasn’t. Yang had told him Michael’s daughter was involved with some bad people, and Nina had said Mel rebelled in school because of her cop dad. Despite everything else, Lindelof had wanted to protect his daughter, and he’d failed. Now he thought James was the killer, and James didn’t know how to convince him otherwise.

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not. She came to my flat and told me she was going to chop me up. Said she was coming back this evening, but she wasn’t the only one after me. Someone was waiting, and when she arrived, they stabbed her to death. It wasn’t me.”

  “Liar,” Lindelof said again, but he wasn’t sure. His voice was weaker, his hand trembling a little. He hadn’t been sure about killing in the first place, and the seeds of doubt were hurting his chances further. He swayed, and James still didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to overdo it so stayed quiet. Waited for Lindelof to speak again.

  “My little girl. I failed her. I failed her.”

  James stayed quiet, but Lindelof let out another roar and came shoved the gun into James’ face.

  “You didn’t fail her,” James said. “She was snatched from you, wasn’t she? It wasn’t you she was working for when she came to my flat. It wasn’t you who turned her into someone happy to hurt people. You know it wasn’t.

  “It was Davis, wasn’t it? Davis who gave up his own daughter to save himself from prison. Because Davis doesn’t understand the bond between father and daughter. Doesn’t feel it. That was why he was happy to take your daughter from you. It’s him you need to blame.”

  “Maybe,” Lindelof said. “But I’ll deal with him later.”

  The gun seemed to press deeper into James’ skill, and he closed his eyes, waited for the end, willing himself not to cry.

  “Or you could deal with me now.”

  The gun left James’ head. He allowed himself a deep breath of release and opened his eyes to see Davis and Paul strolling along the grass.

  “Davis,” Lindelof said, his voice hoarse.

  “Of course,” Davis continued, “if you’re going to deal with me, I’ll have to deal with you too. You got in the way of my man doing his job. I cannot allow that.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Excuse me? Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Why not?” Lindelof was swaying a little, the gun waving back and forth. “All I wanted was a bit of respect. A chance to move forward at work. I deserved it. I asked for one thing from you, and when I got it, I was satisfied. But that’s not you, is it? You couldn’t take what I offered and be happy. You had to keep taking and taking and taking. My dignity, my self-respect. My daughter.”

  Davis put his hands in his pockets, the mark of the unconcerned man.

  “I’m sorry, Chris, but when you make a deal with the devil, you have to be aware of the small print. Though you can hardly play the injured party. As I remember, you’ve had a nice bonus on your pay packet these last few years. So let’s not suggest I was the only one taking.”

  “I took money,” Chris said. “Fine, but you’ve taken my daughter.”

  “No. Your daughter was an adult. She chose to work for me, and she knew the risks. It is a shame. I cared about her very much—”

  “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Please, Chris, don’t interrupt. You’d say I don’t love my daughter because I sent her down for three years, but if I hadn’t acted, we both would have gone down. In fact, my actions reduced her sentence. Because I love her.”

  “What about your grandson?” This was James, and three sets of eyes found him. Davis still looked amiable on the surface, but there was something darker beneath.

  “I didn’t kill my grandson if that is what you are implying.”

  “But you knew he was the one who blackmailed you?”

  “A nice little racket they had going,” Davis said, reducing the bitterness in his voice as far as possible. “Well hidden too. Had Nina not tipped me off, I’m not sure I would have learned the truth.”

  “They—“ For a second, pure confusion, then he remembered what he now knew. Michael hadn’t captured evidence against Davis to offer to the police. Five months ago he had filmed Davis’ confession, but this he had used to blackmail the eldest Chappell, and, if Davis was to be believed, he had done it with Harris. Which meant Nina had tipped him off about both of them.

  No wonder she felt so guilty.

  But still, it wasn’t adding up.

  “On the night in question,” Davis proceeded, once it became clear James’ sentence was not going to progress, “I sent Chris to Harris’ flat to collect any evidence. But I was out of town, I’m afraid. That was why I had to leave Jane’s party early. So I could not have killed him and would never have killed him. Now, Chris, can we please put down the gun. You know what needs to happen. We need to destroy the evidence. Clear our names. Let me deal with James. I make him disappear, and none of it will come back to haunt us. If you carry on this way, you’re going to get us all thrown in prison for a long time. Is that what you want?”

  “My daughter is dead,” Lindelof repeated. “I don’t care about anything else.”

  “I know it seems like that now, but you will change your mind. You will see there is life beyond grief.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do. Now please, let my man take the evidence.”

  Lindelof wavered in indecision, but his arms lowered slightly. Davis took this as consent and nodded to Paul. James began to panic, feeling no one had his best interests at heart.

  “You don’t want to let him take the evidence, Detective Lindelof,” James said. “You don’t want to let him destroy it. Or you wouldn’t, if you knew what was on it.”

  “James?” Davis question
ed. “What are you doing?”

  James ignored him.

  “That camera was set up in Davis’ room a long time,” James said, making it up as he went along. “It didn’t only catch your conversation. There was more.”

  “James?” Davis repeated. “What are you doing?”

  Paul paused, a few feet away. James sensed he didn’t have long.

  “He was also filmed having sex with the girl I love—”

  Davis laughed.

  “—and your daughter.”

  Davis didn’t stop laughing quick enough. Chris Lindelof span from James to the elder Chappell and even once Davis had the laugh under control his smile was too broad.

  “Oh come on, Chris. You don’t seriously—”

  Lindelof lifted the gun and shot Davis Chappell in the head.

  “Holy shit.”

  Paul had his knife out. Lindelof turned to face him.

  “Hey man, I’m nothing to do with him. Come on.”

  Lindelof stared. Paul tried to run but was shot three times in the back before he’d made it past the large oak tree James now stood against.

  Then the madman with the gun was facing James again. His weapon was by his side, but he did not look as though he was finished. He cocked his head, gave James an appraising look.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  James shook his head.

  “I see no reason to tell anyone what I’ve witnessed. These were bad people. I think you've done the world a favour so if we could—“

  “I don’t believe you didn’t kill my daughter.”

  “But I didn’t. I can find out who did but please—”

  “No.”

  Chris raised the gun.

  James charged.

  As the weapon came to James’ head height, he dived, aiming low. He heard the bullet leave the gun and felt it soar over his head before crashing into the tree.

  James collided with Chris, sending him to the ground with a roar of anger and confusion.

  “Bastard.”

  Chris still had the gun. He was swinging it around. James clambered up Chris’ body from where they were on the ground. He got on top and elbowed his would-be-killer in the stomach then the face. Chris gave a roar of anger and aimed the gun. Badly