He Knows Your Secrets Read online

  Detective Maddie Ives Book 4

  HE KNOWS

  YOUR SECRETS

  An absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist

  Charlie Gallagher

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  Joffe Books, London

  © Charlie Gallagher

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Charlie Gallagher to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Please join our mailing list for free Kindle books and new releases.

  www.joffebooks.com

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  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

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  ALSO BY CHARLIE GALLAGHER

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

  A SELECTION OF BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  Author’s Note

  I am inspired by what I do and see in my day job as a front-line police detective, though my books are entirely fictional. I am aware that the police officers in my novels are not always shown positively. They are human and they make mistakes. This is sometimes the case in real life too, but the vast majority of officers are honest and do a good job in trying circumstances. From what I see on a daily basis, the men and women who wear the uniform are among the very finest, and I am proud to be part of one of the best police forces in the world.

  Charlie Gallagher

  Chapter 1

  Saturday

  The young woman pulled open the front passenger door of the taxi, flung in her rucksack and slid into the seat almost in the same movement. The driver jerked towards her as if caught out. He moved his head back and forth, then tutted and fussed over a tablet held against his steering wheel. He managed to pause whatever it was he’d been watching.

  ‘Hey, you need to go to the front of the queue. They get angry!’ An accent accompanied olive skin — Middle Eastern maybe.

  ‘I chose you,’ she said.

  ‘Taxi cab! Take from the front!’

  ‘Break the rules for once. It won’t hurt now, will it?’

  ‘I am new here. These people, they already don’t like me.’

  ‘You want me to tell them? I can. I’ll go and speak to each one, tell them that I don’t want any of them fucking pricks to drive me, that I want you, because you are new, and that you told me to make sure they knew. Or do you think that might draw attention to you even more? You choose.’

  She could feel her anger rising, and knew she needed to control it. She just needed to stay calm. Her rucksack had fallen between her feet. The zip was open, revealing some of the contents. She resisted the urge to check it all again; she must have done so ten times already. She reminded herself that she had everything she needed. She felt a little calmer.

  The taxi driver was still shaking his head but he had put away his tablet and was now pressing at his phone. He fussed with his seatbelt but abandoned his attempt to fasten it when it didn’t clip in straight away. He tutted again. ‘Where do you need to go?’

  ‘Capel. There’s a café on the top. It looks out over the sea. Do you know it?’

  ‘I know this. Breakfast?’ He grinned now. The engine fired. The car was an automatic, she felt it rock forward when he pushed it into Drive.

  ‘Near there. A bench — it’s a memorial bench. It has the best view.’

  The taxi pulled out. She looked out of the passenger window as they moved past the rank of taxis. The drivers all glared at her. She aimed her best daggers back.

  ‘Memorial? This is not a word I know,’ said her driver.

  ‘Memorial . . .’ She ran the word over in her mind, saw the faint reflection of her lips in the window as she said it. Maybe it wasn’t a word she knew either. ‘I guess it means, in memory of. Yeah, that’s it. People pay for them to be there and they stick a plaque with a few words on them — some pretty words or something. Most of the benches up there have them. It’s a good place. A lot of people go there to stare out to sea. It becomes their favourite place, then they die and maybe their family think it’s a good idea. Fitting, like, you know?’

  ‘So you have someone to go up there and think about?’

  ‘I guess I do.’ She could still see her lips when shadows fell over the windows, dimming the light within. They ran under a bridge and she saw her expression was one of subtle surprise.

  ‘Someone you loved?’

  She considered this. ‘It never stops does it? It doesn’t for me, at least. You either love someone or you can’t anymore. There is no loved.’

  ‘Okay then, this is good. Good for you and also good for person you think about, I say.’

  Another dark building swept past her window. In the reflection this time she could see the driver; he was looking over at her with a smile. She didn’t return it. She wasn’t looking to make a friend, didn’t need to be told she was doing the right thing. She just needed to get up there. He must have got the hint; the next dark background showed his focus was back on the road ahead.

  They were in the coastal town of Langthorne in the south-east of England. Capel, her destination, was a village between Langthorne and Dover. They shared the same expanse of white cliffs that had somehow become synonymous with Dover.

  The man pulled off the main drag. The sun was still low in the sky and they now drove right towards it. He stopped at a junction, his head moving left to right. She dropped her window a little. It was just gone seven in the morning but it already felt warm. It was late August but not yet feeling like late summer.

  The man squinted as he peered over at her. ‘Where is memorial?’

  The road in front was close to the edge of the freshly cut lawns that covered the clifftop. The grass was only left to grow wild when you got closer to the edge and her eyes were dragged to its movement in a light breeze.

  They had come out too far up, so she directed him back in the general direction of Langthorne. They passed several benches on the left but she knew what she was looking for. She stopped him a hundred metres short of the café. There were houses to her right, most with big windows to the front to take advantage of the breath-taking view. The car still ticked along. Here the flat expanse of green grass was at its widest point and there were two benches, ten metres apart, both angled slightly to face in the direction of Langthorne’s harbour arm. Visibility was so good she could see the white cliff faces of France, like a reflection in a distant and hazy mirror.

  ‘Which
one is your bench?’ The driver’s voice cut across her focus. She was aware that her heart was racing and her breathing shallower — quicker, too. This was it . . . she had arrived. She took her phone out. Her hands shook. She had to take in a deep breath to steady them. She managed to get a message away. She waited, her stare fixed on the screen. She saw a grey tick appear next to her words confirming it was sent. A moment later and a second tick appeared and she knew it had been received. She sucked in another lungful of air then ran her thumb gently over the name of the recipient. But there was no time for sentiment. She switched the phone off.

  She bent over and reached down into her bag. Her fingers wrapped around a glass ashtray. It was thick and heavy and cold to the touch.

  ‘It’s just a little further on . . .’ Her own voice sounded husky. She was still bent over, her hand near the bottom of the bag. She waited. Her eyes flicked right. The driver pushed the shift into Drive. She saw his leg move, his foot stepping off the brake. The car rolled forward and he leaned towards her slightly to ask her to speak louder.

  It had to be now.

  She snatched her hand out of the bag. The ashtray felt heavier than she was expecting as she turned it in the air and swung it in an arc towards the driver. The cold glass smashed into the side of his head. His head jerked away from the force and there was a thud where he collided with the solid metal pillar. The severity of the blow caught them both out, knocking the ashtray from her hand to thunk off the handbrake.

  Then there was a moment of pause, the man’s expression turned to shock, his eyes flared wide but he didn’t look in control, his whole head seemed to wobble. Then came the blood. It ran in a thick slather from the side of his head and she could only look on. He reached down to his lap with his hands but his eyes didn’t seem able to follow, he scrabbled around like he was searching for the dropped ashtray. She panicked . . . she couldn’t let him get a hold of that! It wasn’t finished yet.

  She threw her right hand out again, this time in a punch. It wasn’t very firm but it worked as a distraction and he raised his hand to protect himself. The ashtray came with it but his grip was awkward. She lashed out again, this time aiming for his forearm. It worked. The ashtray fell back to his lap. She scooped it up. It felt instantly clumsy but she was able to move it back so it could have momentum going forward. She held it tighter and pushed it towards him with all she had. Again it was a firm hit to the side of his head, again he could do nothing to protect himself. He collided with the seatbelt housing that stuck out from the side of the car with a solid clunk.

  The car lurched as his foot found the gas pedal. His legs shook and his hands pushed out towards her, but with no coordination, as though he was losing his functioning.

  The car jerked to a halt. Her body took an impact from the dash down her left side. The heavy ashtray crushed her hand against solid plastic. The blood on the side of his head kept coming — enough to coat his entire ear and run down his neck. She lifted herself up a little to put one knee on the seat. She pushed herself forward, her eyes searching the driver’s footwell. He was murmuring, his hands lolling in his lap, and his face was now facing down, saliva hanging from his lips. She dropped the ashtray and leaned forward to reach for his right leg. It was stuck out, locked against the brake pedal. That was no good. She needed to get the car rolling. She took a firm hold of his right thigh and tried to pull it backwards. It did nothing. There wasn’t the room. She leaned further forward to hook her arms behind his knee and yanked it back. It worked; the car started to roll gently forward. She sat back up. The man was still murmuring but his eyes were shut.

  She pulled the steering wheel hard left and the reaction was instantaneous. The front wheels met with a lip and bumped up onto the grassy expanse. She peered out of the front, adjusting the steering enough so that they moved onto the grass and started across it. They were heading directly between the two benches, towards the cliff edge and the warming sun beyond it. She bit down hard, on her face the beginning of a smile. This was it.

  Everything suddenly jerked forward. She got her hands out in time to stop herself crashing into the dashboard. She glanced at the man. His leg was locked back out, his neck looked to be stiff, as if he couldn’t turn his head, but his eyes peered across at her and they had focus now. His mumbling was louder, there was intent in the words he was trying to form — he was fighting for his life. She leaned across again to take a hold of his leg. She could feel blows on her back as he struck her but his blows lacked any power or accuracy. His leg was stronger; it was as if he knew that he needed to put all of his energy into keeping it locked out, no matter what. This time she couldn’t move it. She sat back in her seat and picked up the ashtray again. He was staring at her, his eyes wide enough that she could see white all the way round the outsides. His voice got louder as his eyes flicked to her raised hand. His speech was nonsense.

  ‘This has to end. I’m sorry.’ She smiled. She knew he didn’t understand now, but he would. In the next life.

  She clasped the ashtray in both hands and threw it forward with all her might. She got a clean strike to the side of his head, and the man slumped over, unconscious, against his driver’s door. It was as if she had found his off switch. The car started rolling again.

  She sat back in her seat and threw the ashtray down. The car bumped slowly across the grass. She lifted her rucksack and put in on her lap then pulled the seatbelt across and clipped it in, being sure to trap the bag against her. She wrapped her arms across it too. Nothing was more important to her now.

  Satisfied, she sat back in her seat. The car seemed to be picking up pace where the ground now sloped gently downwards. Then the vivid green grass in front seemed to run out and all that was visible ahead was the glorious blue of the sky tinged with the golden warmth of a sun that consumed her entirely in a flash of light. She had a moment to consider that maybe it was over already, that this was the afterlife.

  Then the sun was gone. The car scraped, she felt a violent thud then a shudder on the underside of the car that vibrated through her feet and buttocks — and the sea lurched into view. There was a loud bang and the car bucked crudely. But then it was free.

  She closed her eyes to this bit, so the warmth of the sun and the sight of that beautiful, deep shade of blue would be earth’s final embrace.

  Chapter 2

  Kelly Dale swept open the curtains and flinched at the sunshine. It was bright and low. Just a few days earlier it had been the same and she could recall smiling at it before stepping aside to let it flood the room and her mother’s pale face. Her mother had smiled broadly. She always did at the sunshine, no matter what else was going on. But that was two days ago. Everything was different now.

  There were two dirty teacups. The kitchen sink was under the window and her mother’s bed was directly opposite. It was a small place and the bed took up most of the open-plan living area. The one bedroom was down a short corridor past a bathroom that was so small you could wash your hands while still sitting on the toilet. In the kitchen area, her gaze lingered on a wooden ornament: a wooden duck wearing bright yellow wellies. Its head bobbed forward like it had something to say from its place on the windowsill. She put the cups down and turned away from the sun. She saw the hand-stitched doilies her mum had made to pass the time and that were now cheering up the only armchair with a smudge of colour. Yes, her mum’s home was small, but there was such warmth. Her mum could make anywhere feel warm and cosy — safe, even.

  She turned back to the sink and picked up one of the cups. Bone china, with a gold rim and an illustration of a young woman, finely dressed for an era where the horse and carriage she was sitting in made sense. Kelly studied it closely, longing for a hint of her mother’s lipstick caught on the rim — some sign of her at least — anything. But there was nothing beyond the dregs of her final drink. Their last cup of tea together had been supped between frail, thin lips. It had been a long illness and some time since her mother would have had any cause to app
ly lipstick. The police officer had told her that she should take solace in the fact that the pain was over for her mother now. What he didn’t say was that hers had only just begun.

  She plunged the cup into soapy water that was hot enough to scald her hands. There was a knock at the door. She looked up at it and then at her hands, covered in foam. She held them just above the bowl as if she were frozen in time. It took a second knock for her to move. She picked up a tea towel on the way to the door.

  ‘Hello?’ Kelly recognised the voice through the door as Joan’s. She lived in the flat opposite. Joan and her mother had been friends, good friends once, never apart, but since the illness her mother had pushed everyone away. She said that she needed to, that she thought she looked weak — ‘pathetic’ was her word — and she didn’t want that as the lasting image people had of her. Kelly had long since given up trying to convince her otherwise.

  Kelly pulled open the door. Joan was holding a dinner plate with a plastic lid covering it.

  ‘Hey, Joan.’ Kelly’s voice came out as a croak. She hadn’t spoken a word since a stunned thank you at 10 p.m. the previous night — when they had finally taken her mother away.

  ‘I thought you might want a breakfast. I mean . . . I know you probably won’t want to eat anything, but you should.’

  ‘You know, then.’ Kelly was a little relieved. She didn’t think she could say it.

  ‘I saw them come and go. I was going to come round. Say my dues . . . but . . .’

  ‘You should have.’ Kelly’s response was automatic; actually, she was glad Joan hadn’t.

  ‘These are private times. For family. I didn’t want to interfere.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll come to the funeral, though. Just you try and stop me, girl!’ She laughed. ‘Me and your mother . . . the terrible twins we were. I’ve never known a woman like her. She was wonderful.’

  ‘She was,’ Kelly said. The words hung in the air as if both of them were considering the first use of the word was.