P Kane - Her Last Secret

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.