All Your Secrets (James Perry Book 2)

by Mark Ayre

More recently, there had been the assault by Harris’ murderer. His body had still ached from that when he exited the bar, and maybe that was the case now—the new aches and pains made it hard to tell.

  What happened this time?

  He was dizzy. Everything was dark and fuzzy. It was entirely possible he had been attacked or fallen through a bannister again. He pressed his mind to release the memories it was cruelly holding back and, at first, was resisted. Didn’t think James could take it, no doubt. Well, that was no good. He tried again, pushing harder and, this time, the truth began to shake loose.

  The sack over the head. Being grabbed and dumped in the back of a car. Had his captors attacked, tormented and beaten him before dumping him somewhere to die? Did he now lie in some ditch under the stars?

  Wherever he was, the pain was not so severe, presently. There was a dull, distant ache that suggested agony to come, were James ever to return to his senses. As it stood, doing so did not seem the brightest idea.

  “James?”

  A voice nearby. He felt something. A touch at his shoulder, he thought, though it felt distant. The voice came again, echoing. His throat was dry, but he fumbled for a word, not sure what he was going to say until it arrived.

  “Megan?”

  But he knew it was not her. Even through his haze, he could tell the voice was male. The touch had been hesitant, rather than caring or even loving. James tried to talk again, but nothing came. He felt the person beside him rise. Heard the scraping of a chair and their call.

  “Doctor? Oi, doc, he’s awake.”

  Hospital. So they had beaten him, probably intended to kill him but… but what? They had been seen. Someone had found him and brought him here. That sounded right, but he was missing something.

  Footsteps approached, and he pushed his mind again. It came. Running from his captors. Hearing the car. Knowing it was coming but not realising—

  “Ow,” he groaned, reliving the hit.

  “James? James, can you hear me?”

  A different voice this time. The doctor, James guessed, and yes, he could be heard. Forcing his mind to release the last part of his memory was like a bolt. It woke his senses and, although the world was blurry when he opened his eyes, it quickly came into view, revealing the doctor in blue shirt and classic white coat, and the man next to him. The one who had said his name.

  “Owen?”

  “Hey. Yeah. Bet this looks right weird. I wasn’t following you, I swear—“ he held his hands up in mock surrender and laughed. Then dropped them, straight-faced. “Well I was, actually, but—“

  He stopped, looked to the doctor, then back, remorse in his eyes.

  “I hit you with my car.”

  James groaned.

  “Not on purpose. I came around the corner and saw you running at me. I slammed on the breaks and span. Turned side on and we collided. Well, I think I’d pretty much stopped so if you think about it, you hit me, not the other way around.“ He looked again at the doctor who was glaring at him. “What?”

  James came around fast after that. The doc examined him. Talking all the time as though to ensure James did not fall back to sleep. It was true. Owen had all but stopped the car by the time they hit, and as such, although the blow had knocked James off his feet and unconscious, the damage was minimal. It would hurt, and James would bruise all over. But there were no broken bones, no lasting damage. Once again, James had struck lucky.

  Not that this meant he could go home.

  “They’ve called the cops,” Owen confessed, when the doctor had done his examination, given James whatever it was that helped dim the pain, and walked away. “He’s gone to phone them again, let them know you’re awake and ready for questioning. If you are.”

  “Why? Cause you hit me?”

  “What? No. Cause you were running down the road with a sack over your head dumb dumb. And I saw that car shoot off quick fast. What were they doing?”

  “Trying to kidnap me,” James said. “I got away.”

  “Oh good,” Owen said, then, by way of explanation. “Well, we called the cops, but I was kind of worried it was maybe some weird dogging thing. Like a fetish or something. You play the helpless victim, they play the kidnappers. Get you all tied up in back there and—“

  “No,” James said, dreading where this was going. “Nothing like that.”

  “So…” Owen said, eyes alight with the anticipation of an exciting story. “What did they want?”

  “I dunno,” James said. “I escaped.”

  “What you did was barrel head first into my car. Least you can do is fill me in.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Owen leaned back, settled in, arms folded. Showing he was ready to go the distance for this enticing tale. James came close to telling him, then sense kicked in.

  “People are out to get me,” he said, reading from the paranoid playbook. “I’ve been threatened and kidnapped today, and I’ve no idea who I can trust.”

  Happily, Owen got the point.

  “Certainly not someone you’ve only just met.”

  “Right,” James said. He pondered the situation. Took in Owen, keeping vigil at his bedside. It was possible this stranger had saved his life, but why had he been there in the first place? Assuming they wrote off coincidence as not a thing. James questioned this.

  “You might not believe in coincidence,” Owen said, “but let’s not make assumptions. As I said, I was not following you.”

  “You did say that. Followed by a confession you were, in fact, following me.”

  “Okay, I was following you, but it’s not a bad thing. I’m not a pervert or anything.”

  “You sure?” James asked. “That Tracy story was pretty convenient.”

  They both smiled. James didn’t know about Owen but moving those particular muscles made his face ache...

  “Look, truth was I’m bored and lonely. I spend all my time on fucking dating apps trying to find love and having no luck and all the while I’m making no friends. Then I’m stood up — again—and I meet you, and you seem alright so I thought I’d wait for you to come out and see if maybe you wanted to meet up some time and Christ this does make me sound a pervert.”

  James smiled again. Shook his head with understanding. It could be as tricky making friends as finding love, especially if you weren’t confident. James had never hung around outside a bar waiting for a guy to ask if they could be pals, but he could see himself doing it, and was touched Owen thought him worth it.

  “Well you saved my life,” he said. “The least I owe you is a drink.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So, what happened? You waited then what, you saw them take me? Were you waiting around back?”

  “If only. Might have stopped them. I was out front, sitting on the wall facing away from the bar. I’d seen them lock up but assumed you’d have a key. Then I hear the door rattling, and I turn to see you walking towards the back. I almost gave up, but in for a penny and all that.”

  “So you came round back?”

  “Yeah. Got a bit lost—building’s not a simple square, you know?—But I got there, and as I do I see them chucking you in the boot and driving off, so I run for my car, and I’m thinking ‘a car chase, how cool is this?’”

  “Very.”

  “Should have been. But I got caught at a red pretty quick, then lost you and was driving around and then—well, as you know, I found you. Christ that was scary. Thought I’d killed you then you definitely weren’t going to be my friend.”

  At this James actually laughed and for a while, they settled into a comfortable silence.

  James had avoided making friends. It was dangerous being close to anyone so he had steered clear for the same reason he had steered clear of dating apps. Still, Owen had saved him, even if he had almost killed him too, and he seemed kind enough. Maybe friendship wasn’t such a bad idea.

  The police came, and James told them a half story about being kidnapped and having no id
ea why. They went through the motions of questioning him too many times over the same thing before telling him they would do everything they could to find the kidnappers. Everyone pretended this wasn’t as likely as a lotto millions win, then the cops were gone and, half an hour later, James convinced the Doctor to let him go.

  Owen drove him to his car, although James said he had done enough.

  “You know, if you want to tell me the whole story, you can,” Owen said, after a bout of silence. James looked to him, considered doing it, then thanked him.

  “Maybe I will. Maybe when we go for that drink.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Owen said with a hint of sarcasm. A few more moments of silence passed, then Owen went down another route. “Who’s Megan?”

  James considered this, and almost lied again. As though he wanted to protect what he and Megan had. Keep it secret from anyone else. But he liked Owen and saw no reason not to be honest.

  “You asked me about the girl I loved earlier,” James said. “That’s her.”

  Owen smiled, as though genuinely warmed by the news James’ love was a real girl, rather than a figment of his imagination.

  “You dating then?”

  “Not yet. I was with someone else, till today. We broke up. I broke up with her. Not great timing but I couldn’t keep it going anymore. It wasn’t right when we weren’t in love. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. So long as you both agree you’re not in love.”

  Perceptive guy, James thought.

  “She didn’t agree, but she’ll realise. She will.”

  “For your sake, I hope so. You know what they say about a woman scorned.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Five minutes later they arrived at the bar, and James’ body groaned as he forced it into action, stepping onto the tarmac.

  “Thank you, sincerely,” he said to Owen. “I got your number so we can go for that drink. If you still want to, now you know I’m a target.”

  “More than that,” he said. “My life is well boring, so you got anything going on—you wanna get kidnapped again or any of that excitement—you give me a call, I’ll be in.” He stopped, considering it. “That makes me sound weird again, don’t it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  They laughed, and James waved as Owen disappeared into a dark that was beginning to lose its battle against the light of the oncoming morning. James stood where he had been kidnapped, and felt his neck and face, sore from the sack which had left rough indentations across his skin.

  Moving like a robot in need of oiling he dropped into his car and got out of there hoping the surprises were over, if not forever, then at least long enough for him to get a couple hours sleep.

  Reaching his block, he about managed to slide his car into two spaces after completely screwing up the manoeuvre. There was a brief consideration that he might move it, then he was trudging away. It was late—or early—and he was tired. Dead on his feet, which was only mildly better than being dead on his back.

  His door was locked and closed, and as he shoved the key in, he thought briefly of Harris’ door. How it had been left open. It was the only time he considered anything to do with the mystery, then the thought fluttered into the recesses of his mind. Too tired for remembering. Too tired for theorising. Hopefully too tired for even the nightmares.

  He turned the key, and it was as stiff and unmanageable as ever. The door swung back with a squeal that suggested it was not enjoying the motion.

  James stepped in, flicked on the light, looked around, and flicked the light off again. He took a step back into the hall and swung the door closed, withdrawing his key. Pressing his forehead against the wood he gave a low moan. Considered walking away but he needed to sleep. So badly needed to sleep.

  He turned the key—stiff, unmanageable—and swung the door open again. Turned the light on. Resisted the urge to flick it off once more.

  Trying to look on the bright side, he reminded himself things could be worse. There was no one waiting for him. Living or dead.

  On the downside, the flat had been torn apart in a hasty and uncaring search. The cushions had been thrown from the sofa and ripped apart. The TV had been smashed on the floor, leaving shards everywhere. The fridge and freezer doors were open, and the sides were littered with plates and bowls - mostly in pieces. The rug had been pulled back and the curtains torn down. Someone had scratched deep lines into the window. It looked like a vandalism job.

  James guessed that was not the case.

  Ignoring the wreckage and leaving the door open he rushed into his bedroom, almost tripping over the sheets that had been thrown off his bed and going straight for the mattress.

  It was askew, and he didn’t need to kick it aside to know what had happened but did anyway.

  Like the safe in Harris’ office, the space between the slats of James’ bed frame was bare.

  The bag of money, stolen by Harris and claimed by James, was gone.

  13

  The clock on his phone flicked to 04:00. From the window, he could see the first hints of morning light creeping on the unsuspecting city. James was bone tired but did not feel like sleeping.

  Didn’t matter. He had to put his head down for at least a couple of hours. Put to one side the worries of whether the flat raiders would return. The state his brain was in, he couldn’t think—couldn’t theorise. Not that he was ever much good at it. If he didn’t get some sleep, he’d be as much use as a sack of sand in unravelling the mystery of Harris’ murder.

  He locked his door and, noting they had not needed to kick it in, blocked it with a chair. A poor deterrent against a determined attacker, but it would at least provide a modicum of warning of James’ impending doom.

  The bedroom was in ruins, but he managed to construct something of a nest from the torn sheets and broken frame. At least they had left his charger intact. Plugging in his phone, he set his alarm for nine am, crawled into the ruins of his duvet, and closed his eyes.

  A horrible, sleep splitting screech ripped through the air, yanking James from his slumber.

  Battling confusion he sent his hand for the noise, knocking his bedside lamp off the table before getting hold of his phone and remembering the alarm. Dismissing it, he noted his fear of being unable to sleep had been unfounded. No doubt exhaustion and painkillers had trumped anxiety and confusion in those stakes.

  Grogginess was the overpowering feeling, more than pain, misery or hope. He could have stuffed his face into his pillow and slept another 48 hours but forced himself to rise. Soon, Jane would call wanting an update, of that he had no doubt, and what would he tell her? That her father was still the main suspect in the murder of her son? That said son had been pressuring girls into sleeping with him and filming it? That her business partner may have stolen these sex tapes and thus a list of alternative suspects James might want to examine? That he might even be the killer? None of it was likely to please her. Especially given the framing of his lack of concrete answers.

  In the living room, he discovered the magical cleaning fairies had not materialised last night to put his bombshell flat back together. It remained in tattered ruins. A painful reminder that someone had invaded his only private space. Stripping away any sense of safety he might have possessed. It was this, rather than the lost cash that upset him most. Kidnapped outside work. Home ransacked. He was not sure he had ever been in more danger.

  Unable to get comfortable in the flat, and having no desire to tidy, he walked out, leaving it in the same state he had found it the previous night, plus one semi-made bed. Out into the warm morning, he circled the block aimlessly, allowing the fresh air to work away the grog, clearing his mind, facilitating his cognitive functions.

  While chilling in the back of the boot, he had guessed his captors had been sent by Davis, and Davis was still his prime suspect. Though the men had been incompetent. They should have tied his legs or kept closer watch. When he fled, there had been no attempt to reca
pture him. They’d jumped in their car, and high tailed it out of there.

  Hardly screamed professionalism, did it? Had those same men come for Michael and, if they had, how had they succeeded in killing him?

  Maybe not Davis, then?

  Reaching the back of the building James saw a man and woman standing by the fire exit, smoking. He raised a hand, and they raised one back, then he quickened his step and swept by, searching for another face to place in the kidnapping frame.

  Whether Davis or not, it had to be the killer. James could see no one else who would want to kidnap him. If this was the case, and it wasn’t Davis, it meant whoever the killer was, had allies. It also meant they were afraid James was going to learn their identity, meaning they had more faith in his abilities than he did.

  Unable to find any suspects for the kidnapping beyond Davis, he returned to his car. Gripping the steering wheel, he thought of his flat. Ransacked on the same day he had been kidnapped. Could have been the same person. A narrative—Davis has someone turn over James’ flat to reclaim his money. This done, he has James kidnapped to A) punish him for the perceived crime of murdering Harris or B) stop him discovering Davis is the murderer.

  They had a key, though. That was important. This could have been acquired from the estate agent, but he doubted it. More likely his key had been used, and this narrowed down the suspects.

  After his conversation with Jane, he had walked out of his flat, locked up, and had not looked in his bag until he had unlocked his door almost 24 hours later. In that time, he had seen a number of people, but he could narrow it down further. It had to be someone who could have taken the key and returned it without him noticing. This ruled out people like Megan, Davis, and Nina, none of whom had left his sight while he had been with them. That meant it had to be either Owen—who had sat with him a few hours while he was unconscious in hospital—or someone who worked at the bar who could have snuck off, taken his key from the staff room and returned it before the end of his shift.

  He could rule out Owen, who the doctor had told him had not left his bedside, barring toilet trips, while he was unconscious. His fellow bartenders were also unlikely. All had disappeared on breaks throughout the evening, but had any of them been gone long enough? He doubted it.