Her Last Secret

About the Author

P L KANE is the pseudonym of a #1 bestselling and award-winning author and editor, who has had over ninety books published in the fields of SF, YA and Horror/Dark Fantasy. In terms of crime fiction, previous books include the collection Nailbiters and the anthology Exit Wounds, which contains stories by the likes of Lee Child, Dean Koontz, Val McDermid and Dennis Lehane. Kane has been a guest at many events and conventions, and has had work optioned and adapted for film and television (including Lions Gate/NBC, who picked up a story for primetime US network TV). Several of Kane’s stories have been turned into short movies and Loose Canon Films/Hydra Films have just adapted ‘Men of the Cloth’ into a feature, The Colour of Madness. Kane’s audio drama work for places such as Bafflegab and Spiteful Puppet/ITV features the acting talents of people like Tom Meeten (The Ghoul), Neve McIntosh (Doctor Who/Shetland), Alice Lowe (Prevenge) and Ian Ogilvy (Return of the Saint). Visit www.plkane.com for more details.

Praise for P L Kane

‘His stories will take you to the edge of your seat and beyond … so sit tight!’

Paul Finch, author of Strangers

‘Original, engaging, unique. A fine read’

Joe R. Lansdale, author of Cold in July

‘Scarily original’

Peter James, author of Dead Simple

‘An exciting new voice on the crime scene’

Elly Griffiths, author of The Crossing Places

Her Last Secret

P L KANE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © P L Kane 2020

P L Kane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008368234

Version: 2019-10-22

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for P L Kane

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

PART TWO

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

PART THREE

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Marie, who encouraged me to write this book, and Jen, who thankfully was a joy to bring up.

Prologue

As the girl stumbled forward, she had one name on her mind.

She’d lost her mobile back there on the street and didn’t have time to stop and search for it; didn’t have the strength. She just needed to get to some help, maybe make it to the clubbing part of town – though that seemed like a very long way away. And she was getting tired now, breath misting in the autumn air, hardly able to focus. Little wonder – because as she touched the wounds on her chest, brushing the handle of the knife that was still sticking out, that had been left in there as she’d attempted to escape, her hands came away wet. Totally black in the moonlight.

Blood … so much blood.

Pain that had been unbearable only minutes before was dulling now, making her numb. She clutched at a wall, leaving a handprint behind her. There’d be someone soon, she’d find someone who could help her. In fact, yes, there up ahead the street was opening out. Even in her confused state, she knew where she was: the market square. Ahead of her were the stalls, empty now at night-time – not that many were used in the waking hours, either, apart from on certain days – rows of wooden skeletons, looking like the carcasses of long-dead monsters.

Monsters like the ones she’d been so afraid of when she was little. Silly really, being scared of imaginary things like that, when there were so many real things to be frightened of after you grew up. She wished more than anything at that moment – as she slipped on her own blood, righted herself and lunged towards the stalls – that she could go back in time to those days. Back when make-believe creatures under the bed were the only things to worry about. Back when life was so much simpler.

She used the stalls to drag herself along, still searching the space for … there! Someone was waiting in the middle. Or at least she thought it was someone, only to get there and realise it was just tarpaulin hanging down on yet another frame. Things were getting hazy now, her vision blurred. Time was running out. If the monsters here were dead, then she wouldn’t be far behind them. And wasn’t there a part of her that felt relief at that, because living was so, so hard? She’d always assumed it would get better, but it never really did; always thought there would be a brighter day to come. Instead, it was getting darker by the second.

She flopped onto that stall with the canvas sheeting, pain shooting through her again and waking her up momentarily. Forcing her onto her back, because the knife wouldn’t let her lie down on her front.

If I could just go back. If I could just see him one more time.

The man who’d always chased away those monsters back when she was tiny, who’d picked her up and put her on his shoulders when they’d go for walks in the park. Who’d tried to teach her right from wrong, set an example. And whom she’d treated so, so badly.

That’s why the name that had been on her mind, the name that came out – as she finally went blind, as the last of her vital lifeblood seeped out – wasn’t that of the person who’d done this to her. Their name was as far from her thoughts as possible.

No, the name she uttered with her last breath was that of the man she thought might come, as if they shared some kind of psychic bond and she was sending out a distress call. It was the person, when all was said and done, that she still trusted most in this world; the irony being that he probably didn’t even know that anymore, regardless of how true it was.

No, the name on her lips was simply this, uttered as if she was 5 again: ‘Daddy.’

Then all she knew was the dark.

PART ONE

The historic town and borough of Redmarket is situated thirty miles west of Granfield, and is so called because of its association with the meat trade, dating back to its founding in 70–100 AD. Originally the site of a Roman fort, later on an Anglo-Saxon village grew up around the area. However, it wasn’t until the early thirteenth century that it received its official market charter. Known for its friendly locals, Redmarket is surrounded by beautiful countryside and yet is only a stone’s throw away from a number of other thriving towns and cities.

Chapter 1

It always had been, and remained, the worst part of this job.

Some coppers called it the ‘Death Knock’ or delivering the ‘Death Message’ – but whatever name you gave it, the result was the same. You were delivering news that would devastate a family, changing their lives forever. Once the words were out, there was no taking them back again. The knowledge would have an impact on everything, from doing the groceries to whether you even wanted to get up out of bed in the morning.

So, DC Mathew Newcomb paused before rapping on the wood of that door. It wasn’t simply the gravity of what he was about to impart, although it was the worst thing anyone could ever tell another human being; the worst thing they could possibly hear, as well. It wasn’t even the effect on him; that wasn’t – shouldn’t be – what this was about. He’d done this dozens of times, although selfishly on this occasion he knew it would upset him more than any of the others. For the same reason he’d volunteered to come here in the first place, along with the Family Liaison Officer Linda Fergusson. Because he owed this family, knew them personally.

Because he knew the victim.

Linda was looking at him, those brown eyes of hers questioning. Mathew couldn’t put the moment off any longer. He brought his knuckles down on the wood, hard, a couple of times. It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want the knock to sound flippant – he wanted it to somehow convey the seriousness of his business. Wanted it to have told them some of what he needed to impart even before the people inside had answered the call.

Sadly, when the door opened, and standing there was the one person he would have gone to the ends of the earth not to see, she only frowned momentarily, then was suddenly smiling. ‘Matt?’ said Julie, and it was as if the decades hadn’t really passed at all. They were still at school together. She had been his first crush – those freckles and that flaming red hair. Both had faded in the intervening years, the latter to an auburn colour. But in spite of a few wrinkles here and there, the beginnings of crow’s feet at the eyes, she was still beautiful – even in those jeans and a loose shirt. She was still Julie Brent … Jules. How could he have thought he’d ever stood a chance with her? She’d only had eyes for one bloke, right from the start. ‘I can’t believe it. What are you doing …? I haven’t seen you since the reunion a few …’ Her gaze flitted from Mathew to his companion, but now she was frowning again. ‘Mathew, what …?’

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Mathew realised he was standing there like an idiot, yet there was nothing he could do about it. The words simply wouldn’t come.

This had been a bad idea, he said to himself. He’d wanted to … what, break the news to Julie gently, make sure it was delivered in the right way? Was there even a right way? Didn’t feel like it at the moment. Not at all. Wanted to be there for Julie, then? Even after all these years. But he was making such a cockup of it, leaving the poor woman just standing there, wondering what was going on. Looking from him to Linda, then back again. All Mathew could do was shake his head.

‘Matt? Matt, you’re scaring me.’

You should be scared, he couldn’t help thinking. He opened and closed his mouth again, looking for all the world like a ventriloquist’s dummy whose owner had laryngitis. In the end, he managed a strangled, ‘I’m so sorry.’

But, as it turned out, he didn’t need to say any more than that. She’d already realised he was here in an official capacity, from his expression, from the fact he wasn’t alone; knew what his job entailed. There were really only three people this could be about – and Mathew had heard that Julie’s dad was in a home somewhere, so if something had happened to him, she would have received a phone call from there. That left a choice of two, and probably only one of them hadn’t been in the house all night. Wasn’t an uncommon thing, if what he’d heard about the girl was correct – which was why Julie hadn’t been worried …

Until now.

It was Julie’s turn to shake her head, going into denial: ‘No … no, it can’t …’ Mathew had seen this on more than one occasion as well. Julie’s hand was going to her mouth, tears were already welling in her eyes.

‘Who the bloody hell is …’ The voice drifted through even before this newcomer followed, dressed in a vest and pyjama bottoms. Mathew recognised him as Greg Allaway, Julie’s husband. Hair closely cropped to hide the fact he was going bald, and with a well-cultivated beer belly – even more so than the last time he’d seen the man – he was totally the opposite of what Mathew would have expected Julie to end up with. Mathew might not have stood a chance back in school, but he could run rings around Greg Allaway as it stood today. If he hadn’t been married himself, of course. The thought made him uncomfortable, and wasn’t welcome in any way, shape or form. But when Greg snapped, ‘What the bloody hell is all this? I was just getting ready for work!’ it surfaced again momentarily, and just for a second Mathew wanted to punch him squarely in the face.

Julie couldn’t speak, was having trouble even standing. She toppled sideways against the open front door, and it was only when Mathew moved forwards to try and catch her that Greg did something to help – getting there first and grabbing her by the arm to steady her. Grabbing a little too forcefully for Mathew’s liking.

Greg looked from his wife, back to Linda and Mathew. And was there a hint of recognition now that he could take the latter in properly? Did he remember him from the last time they’d met? Remember his vocation? Even if he didn’t, Mathew had been told after all these years on the force he definitely looked like a policeman; didn’t even matter that he was plain-clothes. ‘What’s happened now?’ Julie’s husband asked gruffly.

Linda spoke up this time, doing the job that she’d been trained for. ‘I think it might be best if we came in off the street to talk about it.’

Greg looked back at his wife, who was on the verge of collapsing altogether – her green eyes rolling back into her head – and nodded.

***

Twenty minutes later, and they were all sitting in the living room: Greg and Julie on the couch, him with his arm around her; Mathew and Linda on the chairs opposite. Linda had made them all a tea, after asking where the kitchen was. An especially sweet one for Julie because she was in shock, although the woman hadn’t touched a drop yet, kept staring at the mug in front of her on the coffee table.

‘I just … I just can’t believe it,’ she kept on saying. ‘Not our Jordan.’

All Mathew could do was shake his head in reply. Not that he hadn’t done all the talking he needed to for now, hoping that what he’d said had helped a little. Of course, hearing that your daughter had been stabbed to death was never going to be easy to take in. But the fact that they had a suspect in custody, that he’d been picked up covered in blood not too far from the crime scene, must have been some sort of comfort to her. He left out the fact that they’d found fingerprints on the handle of the murder weapon for now, because it was currently being tested, but Mathew had no doubt whatsoever that they would end up belonging to one Robert ‘Bobby’ Bannister: Jordan’s boyfriend.

‘But … but why?’ Julie asked again, gazing up at him with eyes that looked like they’d been scrubbed raw. All he could do in answer to that was give another shake of the head, because Mathew Newcomb didn’t have the first clue. What he did know was that it was only a matter of time before it all come out in the wash. Things usually did.

‘That young lass was always getting herself into some kind of trouble,’ was Greg’s reply. ‘I’ve … we’ve done our best to try and help her, but, well, some people just don’t seem to want to be helped, do they?’ Before anyone could say anything to that, he added, ‘Oh, Christ – work! I need to give them a call and tell them I’ll be late in.’ When he saw the look Julie cast him, he changed that to: ‘Tell them I won’t be in, I mean.’

He let go of his wife then and went out into the hallway to use the phone on the table there. It was only now that Mathew got up, went over and sat down next to Julie as she broke into another fresh bout of tears. ‘Hey, hey … it’s okay, Jules. Everything’s going to be okay.’ Hollow words and they both knew it. Nothing would ever be okay again as far as Julie Allaway was concerned.

The sound of Greg’s voice on the phone wafted through to them and it was suddenly as if a light bulb had gone on in Julie’s head. ‘Has … has anyone let him know?’

Mathew was puzzled for a second or two, then realised who she meant. ‘Someone’s contacting him, from the station.’

As Julie nodded slowly, Mathew caught the look of confusion on Linda’s face. ‘Greg is Jordan’s stepfather,’ he told her, and she nodded.

‘He … he’ll be in bits,’ Julie mumbled, as if she hadn’t even heard Mathew’s words to the FLO.

‘I know,’ said Mathew, patting her knee. ‘I know.’ She broke down once more, leaning across and sobbing into his shoulder. There were words, but he couldn’t really make them out at first. Then Mathew realised what she was saying.

‘What are we going to do?’ Julie was repeating over and over. ‘What are we going to do?’

***

Jacob Radcliffe yawned as he sat waiting for the other members of his team to get their act together, to get there. It was like trying to herd cats, getting the producer, reporter and sound person all in one place at the same time so they could set off to their destination – this time to do a thrilling piece about an old married couple who’d been together for seventy years. Lucky them. Typical kind of thing for the local news sections on TV. Jake was so looking forward to pointing the camera at them and listening as they gave sage advice like: ‘Never go to bed on an argument’ or ‘Try not to worry about things you can’t control’. Jesus.

Where was all the big news? he had to ask himself. He’d been on more exciting gigs when he’d been a photographer for The Granfield Gazette back in the day. There was even that report about mob boss Danny Fellows and his operations that Jake’s old colleague Dave Harris had been lining up until it got squashed. It had been exciting though, going round and taking pictures of the places Fellows owned, like that casino or the strip joint. Felt like they were doing something important, something worthwhile … Probably a good idea it stopped where it did though, if Fellows’ rep was anything to go by, Jake often thought to himself. At least when you were interviewing old married couples there was no chance of ending up at the bottom of the river wearing concrete slippers.

He looked at his watch again, then out across at the newsroom at the various people who were in at this hour: only a handful so far, checking emails, answering or making calls. Jake yawned again. What was the point of arranging a time to set off on their long drive when nobody was going to show up but him? He had been hoping they could get this in the bag and out of the way before lunch, so he could sneak off and do some more editing on the short film he’d been making in his spare time. It was just something he was doing for fun at the moment, not really thinking it would go anywhere – and certainly not thinking along the lines of BAFTAs or Oscars – but maybe if he could get it up to scratch he could hit the festivals with it. Jake had mostly recruited students from the local unis and colleges to help with it all, people who’d work just for credits over several weekends. And it wasn’t shaping up too badly at all, if he said so himself: a film about young people today and their thoughts about the future, where everything was heading. Fiction, but in a documentary style.

But he was never going to get it finished at this rate, not if Sarah, Phil and Howard didn’t get their arses in gear so they could get this over and done with. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, stifling yet another yawn.

They were lucky he was in at all, the restless night he’d had. It had taken him ages to actually get to sleep and he’d only been in the land of nod a short while when he’d woken up, panicking and sweating. He could have sworn someone had been calling out his name, but when he turned on the light he felt quite silly for answering. Jake had struggled to get back off, tossing and turning, rolling onto his front, his sides. Thank Christ he didn’t share a bed with anyone anymore, because they probably would have kicked him out onto the couch. In the end, he’d got up at stupid o’clock and made himself several cups of coffee – which was probably why he’d got here so early that morning, and why it seemed like he’d been waiting ages. Couldn’t blame the others for staying tucked up in bed a little while longer, he supposed, but all the same …

Jake was relieved when he saw Sarah, their reporter, come through the doors, looking immaculate as usual (he’d once joked that she probably got out of bed looking like that, and she’d scowled and filled him in at great length about all the prep it took). She held up a hand in greeting, then pointed to indicate she was going to grab a drink before coming over. He sighed … but then neither of the others had even shown their faces yet.

Phil and Howard turned up together, laughing and joking as usual – not a care in the world – and Jake was just rising to go and join them when someone actually did call his name. It was their IT person, Alison, holding up a phone for him to come over. Jake touched his chest and she nodded, face quite serious.

‘Who’s calling me here?’ he asked her as he trotted over. He had his work mobile on him, so why not use that? ‘What’s it about?’

Alison shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t say. Sounded official, though.’

Jake took the phone from her, his brow creasing. ‘H-Hello?’ He nodded when they asked if they were speaking to the right person, before realising they couldn’t see him. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

Then, as the words came through the receiver, it was as if time stood still. Jake tried and failed to process them. Instead, he dropped the phone which hung down the side of Alison’s desk by its cord. Then he walked away, leaving Alison and everyone else mystified, ignoring their calls.

He had somewhere to be.

He had something to do.

Chapter 2

How Jake got to his Silver Toyota, got on the road, and made it to the motorway was something of a mystery in itself.

There were just too many thoughts racing through his mind. Memories especially, winding back time to the day he’d first seen Julie at school, and they’d shared that moment – the one that told them both they’d be together forever (hadn’t made seventy years, though, had they). Hanging out with her and Mathew after hours – the Three Musketeers – then him and Matt getting into all kinds of trouble as they started to gravitate towards the wrong kind of company. Graffiti, bit of pickpocketing, joyriding; the usual juvenile stuff. In Jake’s defence, he’d lost his father back when he was only 10 to bowel cancer and his mother was so busy working all the hours God sent, she couldn’t keep a proper eye on him. That was the excuse those lawyers had used at any rate. Then they were caught with a stolen car, and Jake had carried the can for Matt. It had seen him get away with a suspended sentence and community service, thank Christ, though it had probably contributed to his mum having her heart attack a couple of years after that.