Читать книгу Her Last Secret - P Kane L - Страница 15

He just couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about everything.

He’d let them drop him off back at the hotel, the couple of uniformed officers Channing had ordered to escort him ‘home’. But Jake hadn’t stayed there. Couldn’t face going back to that room he’d woken up in, feeling rougher than he’d ever felt in his life. Half-dead …

Better than totally dead.

Though it was also the place he’d decided enough was enough. That it was time to concentrate on his mission, on what he had to do – which was dig out Matt’s card and ring him. There were no two ways about it, he’d needed to see the boyfriend. He hadn’t meant to cause problems at the station – or thought about the consequences for Matt if they were caught – but when the guy had got in his face, Jake had just seen red.

It was almost like he was watching a movie again, someone else reaching out and grabbing the boy by the collar, dragging him to the door. Jake wasn’t a violent person, or at least he hadn’t thought he was … until that moment. He’d assumed that once he saw the guy, this Bobby Bannister, he’d know one way or the other about Jordan. Had wanted to look him in the eyes, he’d told Matt, but even just seeing him would be enough to know … But it hadn’t really worked out like that, had it?

Jake still didn’t know one way or the other whether this boy had actually committed the crime, although everything was pointing in that direction in spite of his claims of innocence. Claims that were actually pretty convincing. He should have felt something, sensed whether this was his child’s murderer, surely? Instead, he’d just felt an overwhelming hatred towards him. But Jake wasn’t just seeing his face, he was seeing all the faces of all the guys who – in his mind – had corrupted his daughter. Had turned her into something she really wasn’t, something she shouldn’t have been. Something that had got her killed.

And he’d snapped.

The rest, like a lot of things since he’d got that phone call the previous morning, was a bit of a haze. Matt trying to pull him away, Channing, the interview room. Jake was aware then of how much trouble he’d got his friend into, was sorry, but at the same time glad he’d got the opportunity – however brief it had been – to confront Bannister. It was only afterwards he’d thought about what that might have cost Matt: his job, his family … He hadn’t needed to stick his neck out for Jake, but had anyway. That was true friendship.

Luckily, Jake’s actions hadn’t landed him in too much hot water – Channing was more concerned about his own neck than anything. More than willing to cover things up.

Wouldn’t be the first time …

Which didn’t exactly inspire confidence, made you wonder what else they’d swept under the carpet in this town. Jake guessed he’d probably never know.

It would be awkward probably at work for a while, but things would calm down. Jake would make it up to Matt, somehow. He wasn’t sure how.

What if … what if none of this had ever happened, eh?

If only.

But it left him right back at square one in figuring this all out. Figuring out why it had happened. The cops didn’t seem that interested in the reason, they had their man (caught red-handed … yes, red as in Jordan’s blood). It was like Channing had said to him, they were so close to nailing him now.

What had really happened, though, that night? Why had Bannister done it, if he even had? If he never admitted he’d killed Jordan, then none of them would find peace. She would never find peace.

Jails were full of convicts claiming they hadn’t done it, swearing just like Bannister had sworn it.

I-I found her like that, I swear!

Nobody ever got to the bottom of those cases, nobody punished the truly guilty party or parties. Nobody really cared. There were people who cared about this one, though. Who had cared about Jordan. Who would find the truth, whatever that was.

Where to start, though? He had no idea. Where would Dave Harris have started? His old colleague from The Gazette … ‘A story starts at the beginning,’ Dave used to say. And even as he thought that, Jake saw a flash of Jordan as the happy little girl he’d known and loved (still loved, in spite of everything, but this was different). Before the world had swallowed her up, before social media, friends who led her down the wrong paths, boys. Back then, back at the beginning, things had been simple.

They probably hadn’t been, Jake knew that – people always looked back with rose-tinted glasses. But they’d seemed it. Easier, happier. Happier than later on. Happier than now, that was for damned sure! There had been hope, anyway – for the future. That everything would turn out okay.

When he’d set off from the hotel, Jake hadn’t really known where he was heading. He had some vague notion about buying a change of clothing, actually getting that toothbrush he’d told Matt he was after when whiskey was the only thing on his mind; plus a charger for his phone, as he’d left without one. And he’d done all that, found somewhere and purchased what he’d needed for now – had carried them around with him in plastic bags like somebody who’d just been to the sales. Or been made homeless.

But still he hadn’t returned to the hotel, he’d carried on wandering. Realised at some point that he probably should eat; again, he’d be no use to anyone – especially Jordan – if he simply collapsed. How would he get to the bottom of anything then?

It wasn’t the healthiest, but he grabbed a burger and some fries at a fast food place. Jake sat for a while just staring at the meal in front of him, felt like doing anything else in the world but this. The body was a machine, though, and like any other machine it needed fuel. So he picked up the burger, something he would have relished before, enjoyed on the hop between shooting gigs, and he forced himself to bite into it. Jake chewed mechanically, swallowing, fighting the sensations when he thought he was going to throw up again.

In the end, he wolfed the whole meal – he’d underestimated just how hungry he was – and washed it down with diet coke this time, alcohol the furthest thing from his mind.

Then he wandered once more, up and down streets so familiar to him but which now seemed alien and hostile. He barely noticed when the sun began to set; more darkness, which he could embrace. His feet hurt, but he kept going. Maybe if he walked long enough, far enough, he really could turn back time. Make it so this whole thing hadn’t happened.

Had it been the noise that attracted him, he wondered afterwards. Redmarket coming to life and doing what it did best, welcoming the lost souls to bars and clubs. The one thing it was known for now, legendary nights out – bucking the trend of other towns and cities that found their streets virtually empty since the recession started to bite. Instead, Redmarket had blossomed; he’d seen that start to happen even before he left the area. A reinvention for this former market town that had once been known for its meat more than anything else, hence its name.

Now there were meat markets of a different kind, where young men could hook up with young women on any given night of the week. Jake observed some of them off out that evening: gaggles of girls wearing shiny skin-tight dresses that barely came down past their waists, clutching tiny handbags, already clearly drunk (not that he could talk after last night), tottering on high-heels, wearing make-up the Joker would have been proud of. Similarly, the lads out on the pull: skinny jeans and shirts open to their belly buttons practically. All they were missing were the medallions and flares and it could have been the 1970s rather than this day and age.

Jake heard the music being pumped out, the thumping bass that would have made your internal organs vibrate if you were close enough to it. Saw the flashing lights, all the colours of the rainbow. Mesmerising, drawing people in as effectively as those sirens used to do to the sailors of old – and there’d be just as many crashes later on. Perhaps not on rocks, but people crashing into each other. Dancing to begin with, then later in alleyways and in flats; bodies crashing against each other in another way. Kids who hardly knew each other, screwing like it was some sort of hobby or pastime, a new sport.