Ask No Questions

by Hartley, Lisa

  ‘Yeah.’ None of their business. Caelan kept her head down, climbed the stairs. A balcony ran along the front of each floor, the doors of the flats on that level opening onto it. She picked her way through the rubbish and debris, rounded a fat, miserable-looking ginger cat, stopped outside flat 19.

  She touched Ewan’s arm. ‘Let me do the talking, okay?’ He nodded. ‘Sam’s a good bloke, but he’s got himself into a state since he left the force. He might be pissed. No, he will be.’

  ‘But you think he can tell you something?’

  ‘Hopefully.’

  She knocked on the door. Silence. Wondering if she was making a mistake, Caelan stepped back, close to the edge of the balcony. Below them, the BMX and its rider had vanished, though the kids were still there. One of the youths saw her looking down, said something to his mates. He blew her a kiss, grabbing his crotch. Caelan’s expression didn’t change. She stared back at him, his acne-scarred cheeks, his tight jeans and huge trainers. He laughed and turned away. Posturing, but she’d be wary when they went back to the car. She hated the tiny echo of fear, and stamped it down. He was not a threat; he was a kid showing off to his friends, no more. She knew she could render him helpless within seconds, but he had the power to unnerve her all the same, and she hated him for it.

  Behind her, Ewan cleared his throat. Caelan was pleased he had remained silent, not interfering or offering to protect her. Not his job, not his place. She moved back to the door, hammered on the flaking paintwork again.

  ‘Maybe he’s out,’ said Ewan.

  ‘Maybe he’s shit-faced.’ Caelan bent towards the letter box and poked it open. A dim hallway, scuffed laminate flooring and woodchipped walls. ‘Sam? Come on, Clifton, open the door.’

  There was a thump, the rustle of movement. A burst of laboured coughing, then: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Open the door and you’ll find out,’ Caelan called back.

  A pause. ‘Caelan?’

  ‘Bingo. Come on, Sam.’

  He shuffled into view, and took his time removing chains and undoing bolts. At last he appeared in the doorway, dark blond hair plastered to his head, unshaven, blue eyes shuttered. He wore an old England football shirt and scruffy jeans, his feet pushed into a pair of battered leather slippers. The waft of warm air, takeaway food. Male sweat. Caelan swallowed.

  ‘Can we come in?’

  Sam squinted at Ewan. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A friend.’

  A humourless laugh. ‘You still have some then? Lucky you.’

  He led them into a tiny living room, a huge TV muted, a video game paused on the screen. The coffee table swayed beneath the weight of hardback books, newspapers, beer cans and food wrappers.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ Sam said unnecessarily. He waved them towards the sofa, then lowered himself unsteadily into a beanbag, pushing a three-quarters-empty vodka bottle beneath it with his foot. Caelan removed a plate containing the remains of a curry from the settee before sitting. She leaned forward, elbows on her thighs.

  ‘How have you been, Sammy?’

  He looked around pointedly. ‘Top of the world, love, as you can see.’ He didn’t sound drunk, but he spoke carefully, enunciating each syllable slowly, as though locating the words in his brain was an effort.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘And here’s me thinking this was a social call.’ Sam stared at her, brow furrowed. ‘What the hell are you wearing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ Caelan glanced down at the thin grey sweatshirt and jogging bottoms.

  ‘Stuff they give criminals to put on after they seize their clothes for evidence.’

  Caelan said nothing, and Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘Are we playing twenty questions?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

  He sniffed, raising a hand to rub at his nose. ‘Not since I was the lead story. I tend to avoid it these days.’ He pushed himself to his feet and left the room; returned carrying a cardboard box. ‘Beer?’

  Ewan refused, but Caelan accepted a warm bottle of lager, nodding her thanks. Sam slumped into the beanbag again, popped his own beer open and said, ‘How have you fucked up this time?’

  ‘This time?’ Caelan cocked her head. Sam drank, tipping his head back as far as it would go, his eyes fixed on the grimy ceiling. He scrubbed a hand across his mouth.

  ‘I’ve been told to keep my trap shut, stay away from you,’ he said. ‘To stay away from everyone.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve got a thousand locks on your front door?’

  ‘The only door. And yes.’

  Caelan absorbed this. ‘No one’s been in touch?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’m a fucking pariah. Even my mum avoids my calls.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam.’

  He exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Are you?’ He drained his beer. ‘What’s this news?’

  Caelan took out her phone, scrolling through the news app until she found the headline. She handed the handset to Sam, who scanned the story.

  ‘Yeah, and? Some bloke’s been shot.’ He looked up at Caelan, taking in the police-issue clothing again. Her expression. She saw a flicker of fear in his face, a shiver touch his spine. ‘Who? Who was it?’

  Caelan told him. Sam froze as the words penetrated his fogged brain. He drew his knees close to his chest and wrapped trembling arms around them. ‘Oh fuck.’

  ‘You see why I’m concerned.’

  ‘Concerned? You should be shitting yourself.’

  Caelan gestured at her clothing. ‘I’ve a feeling I’m about to become the prime suspect.’

  ‘You?’

  She explained what had happened without telling him why she had been near Ronnie Morgan, or revealing that they believed Lambourne to be back in the country. Sam raised his eyebrows when he heard that she had found Ronnie in the underpass, but didn’t push the issue.

  ‘You’re here to warn me, then?’

  ‘I doubt anyone will do it officially.’ Caelan shrugged.

  ‘You said you needed my help.’

  She nodded. ‘You and I are the only ones left who were there.’

  ‘Charlie Flynn?’

  ‘Penrith is asking questions.’

  ‘Are you surprised? It was a disaster.’

  ‘He’s suggesting …’ Caelan set her jaw, made herself say the words. ‘He’s suggesting I was working for Lambourne. You too. He thinks Charlie was alive when we got to the house.’

  Sam stared at her, his shoulders hunching. ‘Then he’s full of shit.’

  She nodded. ‘Charlie was already dead. I know it, so do you.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  Abruptly, Caelan stood. She paced to the door, her eyes burning with tears, the dread Ian Penrith had given voice to pushing its way to the front of her brain. ‘He didn’t move, he didn’t speak. The post-mortem proved he’d been drugged for a period before he died. What if we were wrong, Sam? What if Charlie was still alive when we arrived at the house?’

  Sam was on his feet, taking two wobbly steps towards her. ‘He wasn’t. Listen to me: you’re going to drive yourself mad thinking like this. We checked for a pulse, he wasn’t breathing. Lambourne and Walker ran while we were distracted because they’d killed him.’

  Caelan grabbed his arm, held it, her fingers biting into his flesh. ‘But there was no blood, Sam. I didn’t see any damage to his head.’

  He squirmed, trying to release himself. Caelan held on, not looking at Ewan. Every doubt, every worry she’d had about what had happened was rushing into her mind, falling out of her mouth. She hadn’t planned to say any of this, but now she had started, she found she couldn’t stop.

  ‘It was dark,’ Sam choked out. ‘He was lying on his front, we wouldn’t have seen any exit wound. We couldn’t even see our own hands in front of our faces until I switched on my torch. Caelan, he was dead.’

  Her breath shuddering in her chest, Caelan turned away, not wanting to look at him. Ewan jumped up to fol
low as she stormed towards the front door. Sam stumbled after them, still bleating, and as Caelan wrenched at the door, she rounded on him.

  ‘Keep telling yourself he was dead, Sam. I’ve tried to, but it won’t work. It makes no sense, doesn’t add up.’

  Sam gazed at her, his lips trembling. ‘Caelan, someone killed him. You know they did.’

  She nodded slowly, all at once perfectly calm. ‘Yes, Sam. The question is, who? And when?’

  16

  In the car, Ewan was silent. Caelan let him drive for a few minutes before she said, ‘I’m sorry you heard all that.’

  She saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. ‘Is it true?’

  She turned her head, unable to find the words. ‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Clifton seemed sure.’

  Caelan glanced at Ewan’s profile, unable to read his expression as the street lights and headlights of other vehicles sent shadows flitting over his face.

  ‘Lambourne escaped while you went to the victims?’

  ‘Yeah. Sam ran to Charlie, I tried to help Nicky, but there was nothing I could do.’ Caelan clamped down the memory as it threatened to ambush her. Nicky’s face, Nicky’s throat, Nicky’s blood …

  ‘So you only knew Charlie was dead because Clifton told you so,’ Ewan pointed out gently.

  ‘I had no reason to doubt it.’ Not then. ‘Penrith won’t be the only one asking questions. Now Lambourne’s back, Ronnie Morgan’s dead and I’m being pushed away.’

  ‘You told Clifton you thought you’d be the prime suspect in Ronnie Morgan’s murder. Do you believe that?’

  She watched the world outside blur past for a few seconds before replying.

  ‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But you didn’t kill him.’ It wasn’t a question, and Caelan didn’t bother to answer. She closed her eyes, wishing she was already home. The flat would be cold, dark and never hers. But there was security, a stout door.

  ‘Drop me at the side of the road,’ she heard herself say. Ewan glanced at her, eyebrows raised. ‘I’ll make my own way home. Go and see your sister. I’ll be in touch.’ She attempted a smile, but it was all wrong. Her face wouldn’t co-operate, her shoulders heavy with the burden she was dragging back upon herself.

  ‘Let me take you to your apartment first.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She gave him a hard stare. ‘I told you. Home.’

  He said nothing more, but she knew he didn’t believe her, that he was concerned. Get away from me while you can, she wanted to tell him. She should never have involved him in this.

  As Ewan guided the car towards the kerb, Caelan wondered how Sam Clifton, unemployed and supposedly penniless, was finding the money for takeaways and premium brands of vodka and lager.

  * * *

  Sam popped the cap on another beer, chasing the first mouthful down with a hefty swig of vodka. He curled into the corner of the sofa, allowed his head to fall onto a well-worn cushion. Caelan Small. He hadn’t been expecting her to arrive at his home, but if Lambourne’s son was dead, all bets were off. He had spent the final nine months of his career deep undercover, attempting to discover who Lambourne employed, who he trusted. Who could be used, possibly turned. The answer had been obvious from the beginning: no one. Lambourne was a shadow, a ghost. When he was spoken of, it was in hushed tones, with reverence. Sam had considered himself good at his job – a success. He had cosied up to more criminals than he cared to remember. Lambourne, though – Lambourne was different. No one dared even speak about him. The man and his inner circle remained a mystery.

  Until Charlie Flynn.

  Why Lambourne had decided to dabble in kidnapping, Sam had never figured out. It was difficult, and risky; there was a good chance anyone attempting it would be caught. Lambourne had made his money in drug dealing and extortion – much safer bets.

  Sam poured more vodka into his mouth, relishing the cold, hard taste. Had Caelan thought about the reasons behind the kidnapping? No doubt. Charlie Flynn’s family had been reasonably well off but not stupidly rich, not by London standards. In any case, Lambourne had not made a ransom demand. Cradling the vodka bottle in his lap, Sam took a mouthful of lager, swilling the lukewarm liquid around his mouth before swallowing it. There were so many unanswered questions. Until Caelan had stormed back into his life, though, whether Charlie Flynn had been alive or dead when he and Caelan left him had never been one of them. Never.

  Until tonight.

  When the knock came, Sam took his time, finishing both the vodka and the beer before dragging himself to his feet. He stood in the centre of the living room, the walls on a fast spin around him.

  A second knock, louder than the first. No voice through the letter box this time. Sam shuffled closer, using the wall to keep himself upright. There was a peephole fitted in the door, and he closed one eye, tried to line up the other with the hole. Missed. He stumbled, his forehead crashing off the frame of the door. He began to laugh, though when he touched his face, his hand was red. He was on the floor, he realised, the laminate cold on his back, his legs braced against the door.

  Another knock. The letter box moving now, opening a fraction.

  ‘I know you’re there, Clifton.’

  Sam’s head jerked, realisation hitting him like a slap. Danger. He pushed himself onto his knees, his head lolling.

  ‘Clifton?’ A pause. ‘I can see you, you fuckwit. Let me in.’

  Sam scrabbled on the floor, trying to stand. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘Come on, Sam. I’ve brought a bottle.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  There was a chuckle, then the clink of glass against the letter box. ‘Don’t be like that. We’ll have a drink, nice and friendly.’ Another pause. The voice now more like a snarl. ‘I’ll count to three, then I’ll force the door.’ Sam gulped, aware now that he hadn’t replaced the chains and bolts. Knowing the door without his extra security was about as strong as a cardboard box.

  He staggered towards the living room, terror sharpening his senses. He stared around, his eyes searching for the escape he knew didn’t exist. No hiding place, no camouflage. No hope.

  He heard the door open easily, footsteps on the laminate.

  ‘Wasn’t even locked,’ the voice called cheerily. Sam backed into a corner, his arms tight around his body. He wasn’t a religious man, had never prayed in his life, but he was pleading now, asking God to help him.

  ‘There you are, Sam.’

  It seemed God was not in the mood to listen. Sam noticed the smile first, wide and mocking.

  Then he saw the gun.

  He managed to whisper, ‘What do you want?’

  A shrug. ‘To talk. And then …’

  Sam swallowed. ‘Then?’

  ‘Depends what you tell me, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m not your first visitor tonight, am I?’

  Shaking his head, the motion prompting a wave of nausea, Sam answered quickly. ‘No. Someone else was here.’

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve decided to tell the truth.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘It was a test. I saw them leave. What did she want?’

  Sam moved away from his corner, towards the sofa. The intruder’s gun hand twitched. Sam froze, raising his own hands in submission.

  ‘To check on me, see how I was.’ He was aware of the tremor in his voice. He’d been trained to survive interrogations, to preserve his cover identity at all costs and give away nothing. Now look at him. Panicking at the first sight of a gun. Tears blurred his vision as he was reminded again how far he had fallen. The drink, this dump of a flat. His own face, haggard and unshaven.

  ‘Is that right? Interesting. No one seems to have bothered before.’

  His face flushing, Sam said, ‘She was in the area.’

  A mocking laugh. ‘How convenient. Who is she?’

  Sa
m lifted his chin. ‘A friend.’

  ‘Give me a name.’

  Fear rushed through him again. ‘No.’

  The gun came up, aimed squarely at Sam’s chest. He clenched his teeth together.

  ‘No? Even though I’m the one with the gun?’ A glance at Sam’s lower body. ‘Even though you’ve just pissed yourself?’

  ‘If you kill me, you’ll never find out.’

  Laughter again. ‘You think?’ Two steps closer, the gun now trained on Sam’s head. ‘Tell me.’

  Sam forced himself to keep talking. ‘How did you know where to find me? How did you know who I am?’

  The gun wavered for a second, then was lowered again, pointing at the floor. ‘You need to ask? You were all over the news: Sam Clifton, king of the fuck-up. But your colleague was never named. It was her that came here tonight, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  Two more steps, a fist bunching Sam’s football shirt around his throat, the gun rammed against his temple. His vision spun and lurched, his knees sagging. A moan escaped his throat before he clamped his lips closed again.

  ‘Liar. I’ll give you one more chance to tell me.’

  Sam stood perfectly still, refusing to speak. If this was his end, so be it. He’d let Charlie Flynn down, but he wouldn’t do the same to Caelan. Knowing he had one chance, he allowed his body to go limp. The gunman hesitated, and in that second, Sam arced a hand towards his throat. The gun fell, the man’s eyes wide as he choked and fought to reach the knife Sam had embedded in the side of his neck. Sam dropped to the floor, panting, grabbed the gun, straightened up. Stepped away from the blood. The other man was on his knees, then his back. Sam stood over him, the gun trained on his face. He wasn’t going to get up again, Sam knew, but no harm in being careful. Careful could save your life.

  The gunman was breathing raggedly now, blood pumping from the wound. Sam knelt beside him.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  A cough, a splutter of blood. ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Come on, tell me. Was it Lambourne?’ The man’s eyes were rolling back in his skull. Sam knew he didn’t have long. ‘Tell me, and I’ll make it quick.’ His turn to brandish the gun.