Authors: Laura Salters
Run Away (23 page)
“What kind of info—”
“Private information. Information about . . . about the movements of certain influential figures. Foreign consulates. MPs. The governor of—”
“The governor of the Bank of England?” Kayla finished.
Silence.
She blinked in disbelief. Her stomach dropped. The terrorist attacks. Waterloo. Heathrow. Kings Cross.
People dead. People missing. Blood, tragedy, fear.
Her dad.
Words frothed from her mouth. “You’re a terrorist. A
terrorist
. How can you even look at yourself in the mirror having facilitated that? There’s blood on your hands, Dad. You’re fucking
drenched
in it, you—”
“I
know
. Jesus, don’t you think I know? I hated myself—I still do. But there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it, you can see that, right?”
Kayla said coldly, “No. You could have told the police. You could have owned up. After the first attack at Heathrow, didn’t you . . . ? How could you? How could you not stop this?”
Mark recoiled as if he’d been slapped, pushing himself up off the desk and twirling around to face Kayla. “Don’t you understand? I didn’t have a choice, I—”
“Will you stop acting liking a victim and insisting you didn’t have a choice? Every single thing you’ve just described to me was a choice. Every single thing. Stop trying to shift the blame. You’re the bad gu—” Mid-rant, a chilling thought hit Kayla. “Wait a minute . . . what does this have to do with Gabe? Or with the Facebook account? Did the guy from behind the camera send those messages? Did things get that personal?”
Mark shook his head slowly. “No. No.”
“So how is it all connected?”
“Gabe was a smart kid. There was an attack about six months ago. Smaller. The first time we were blackmailed. An important City broker murdered in a black cab. Do you remember that? Footage was posted on a jihadist Web site. Gabe . . . he’d been interning at Greyfinch for a few days and worked it all out, even though I’d never uttered one word about it to him. I have no idea how he found out—I still don’t—but the fact is, he did. And we couldn’t risk him going to the police, or worse, the press, to confess the truth.”
Kayla’s blood turned to ice. “Y-You . . . you
killed
him? Just to keep your own fucked up secret safe?”
Please say no
.
Please say you didn’t kill Gabe
.
“No! God, no. How could you even think that? I would never kill my own son. I’d rather kill myself! And believe me, that thought did cross my mind. I’m not proud, but . . .” Mark’s eyes clouded over. The fog of depression still clung to him. “I just begged Gabe not to go public with it—I knew the kind of people I worked with—and I even sent him away to boarding school to try and keep him out of harm’s way. I knew Walsh wasn’t as . . . emotionally attached as I was. He would have no qualms over eliminating a threat like that. I tried to keep Walsh from finding out that Gabe knew, but somehow he did. I assume he’s the one who sent the messages, though I have no idea how he did it from this computer.”
“So did Gabe actually commit suicide? Or was he murdered?”
Mark’s cheeks were lined with wrinkles and splotches of red. “I truly don’t know. I asked Walsh, of course I did. I demanded that he tell me what happened to my son . . .” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. There was a sheen of sweat on his jowly face. He sniffed. “But he wouldn’t. He always was a cold, heartless man.”
“Wonder what that’s like,” Kayla muttered. She was overwhelmed by what Mark had told her, shaking violently, drenched in cold sweat.
Terrorism
.
Treason
.
So much blood
. “Can you tell me one more thing?”
“I don’t see why not,” Mark said, and laughed sourly. “What does secrecy matter now?”
“Is what happened to Sam in any way linked to all of this? Or was it just a freakish coincidence?”
Mark sat back on the desk, this time angled slightly toward her. Gently, he said, “I’m so, so sorry Kayla. You were never meant to fall in love with him.”
The bottom fell out of Kayla’s stomach, and her heart swiftly followed. The color drained from her face. She couldn’t speak. Mark fumbled to find more words to fill the void. “I knew Walsh was sending people over there to keep tabs on you. I’m willing to bet there are some here in England too, knowing Walsh. I know he ordered them to give your pal Sadie Winters a shock, anyway.”
Sadie? Sadie knew too?
Kayla couldn’t keep up with the endless list of betrayal.
Mark continued, “But while most of them kept their distance in Thailand, he sent one extra person on the same trip as you, and paid them generously to befriend you and report back on whether you were behaving as expected. You know, acting the way a girl who didn’t know that her father was a corrupt bastard would. But one night—the night before Sam disappeared—I overheard Walsh on the phone. From what I gather, he was concerned that the spy had become
too
close to you, and that the prerogative was no longer to protect Greyfinch. And obviously, he couldn’t let the spy walk free and do as they pleased—if their loyalties really had been compromised, they were almost guaranteed to go to the police. So Walsh ordered the others out there to eliminate the threat. Which, in this case, I assume was Sam. The next day, we got your phone call about what happened. I’m so sorry, Kayla, I really am. After everything you’d already been through.”
Kayla didn’t know whether every fiber of her being ached more because Sam was definitely dead or because he was never who he said he was.
Even through the excruciating pain, self-preservation kicked in. “Wait a minute. If both Gabe and Sam were killed to keep this quiet . . . what’s going to happen to me?”
The grandfather clock behind her ticked loudly. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. “I don’t know,” Mark said slowly, something resembling fear creeping into his voice. He still couldn’t look her in the eye. “At this point, nobody but me knows that you’ve heard the whole story. So we could carry on as normal, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t trust Walsh. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had this house bugged. We have to get you somewhere safe—somewhere they . . . th-they can’t get to you. I’ve already lost one kid, and I’ll be damned if they try to harm you too.”
“Is there even anywhere safe left?” Kayla asked.
She would never hear her dad’s reply, because at that moment her nan walked through the door.
Hang on
.
Isn’t she supposed to be in Oban?
Kayla was about to warn her to leave, to run away from this crooked family and never look back. But there was something strange about the look on Nan’s face, about the twisted smile and the narrowed eyes. Something that told Kayla her nan already knew.
August 2, England
E
VEN IF YOU
struggle to know what’s real when you’re dreaming, you can always identify reality when you’re awake. And this nightmare was very, very real indeed.
“Mum?” Mark seemed as shocked as Kayla. “What are you doing here?”
“I always knew you weren’t up to it, Mark.”
“What the . . . What are you talking about? Up to what?”
“Your failure to fulfill your father’s wishes, to continue building his empire with honor and integrity. That’s what I’m talking about, Mark. He’d turn in his grave if he knew what you’d done.”
Kayla had never heard her nan’s voice so strong, so assured. Her head spun viciously, whooshing and swirling like she was drunk.
“How did you . . . how did you know?” Mark asked.
“How did I
know
? Please. I know more than you ever will. I was there with your father from the very beginning. People think I was just some trophy wife who attended functions, wore red lipstick, and smiled politely while the men were taking care of business. But the whole time I was calculating threats, seeking opportunities, building contacts. Your father had the vision, the initial idea, and the unstoppable ambition, but I had the brains. I could see through the sales talk, know when we were being played, and know how to play our enemies right back. But while I did it for the good of the company, I always kept my morals. Never lost sight of what was right and what was wrong. It’s just a shame the same can’t be said for you. I’m still respected within that company, Mark, more so than you ever will be. I’ve known about the blackmail since day one. Known my own son was . . . was a traitor.”
Mark slid off the desk and fell to the floor, his head falling into his hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed everyone. I’ve . . . I-Innocent lives have been lost. I’m sorry. So sorry. If I could change it all—”
“Yes, you are a failure. But there’s no point being emotional. We have to clean up this mess, Mark. Think of what would happen if this got out. We’d all be arrested for countless offenses: perverting the course of justice, murder, treason. Aiding and abetting terrorists. The country would fall apart, knowing that the surveillance system was so corrupt. All of those who argue about the panopticon, the Orwellian monitoring, the ruthless breaches of privacy, the Big Brother state . . . they’d be right. It’d be disastrous, there would be outrage, riots. Not only would the Finch name be in tatters, but the United Kingdom would be too.”
“Kayla won’t utter a word, Mum. She knows how deadly this secret is. Stop talking like a Bond villain.” He laughed nervously.
“This is hardly funny, Mark. Everything our family has worked for over the last half a century is hanging in the balance, and all you can do is make jokes?” Iris shook her head in disgust.
“So what are you going to do, Nan? Kill me to protect your name?” Kayla demanded, only half joking.
Iris spun around to look at Kayla. There was a wildness in her eyes that Kayla had never seen before. “Why not? I already killed your brother.”
All of the air was sucked out of the room. Everything was still for a moment, frozen in light of the revelation. Kayla’s heart stopped.
Mark screamed, “You WHAT? You killed my son? Your
GRANDSON
? All in the name of some twisted ideologies? You sick old bitch! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Kayla screamed even louder than her dad. “YOU KILLED MY BROTHER? It was
you
who sent those Facebook messages? You drove him to suicide—”
“No, I didn’t. I tried to.” Iris’s voice wobbled. “Don’t get me wrong—I tried to talk him down first, to convince him not to go public, but he wouldn’t back down. Didn’t want to be complicit in our heinous acts. Then I tried to threaten him online, on social media, but it was too little, too late. He knew too much, and he was determined to bring us down. I . . . I didn’t see another option. Time was running out, and I panicked. So I waited until everyone was out, went into his room and saw he was taking a nap. I handcuffed him before he could wake up and overpower me, then I slit his wrists, so it’d look like he’d done it himself. I stayed with him until I could be sure he was dead. You think that was
easy
for me? To watch my grandson die a slow and painful death? To hear him spend his last waking minutes begging me to help him? Well, it wasn’t. It . . . it still haunts me every day. But that’s the difference between you and I, Mark. I can see the bigger picture. I can prioritize the greater good.”
Kayla felt like she’d been punched repeatedly in her torso. This could not be happening. Her nan could not have just confessed to the murder of her brother. She glanced at her father. He was broken. Shattered.
Tears pricked behind Kayla’s eyes, but she blinked them back. There was one prevalent image through the pain and grief: Sam. In spite of everything, she still loved him. And he had died because he had loved her too much to betray her trust and report back to Greyfinch – he put her safety above his own. Her life above his. That had to be worth something. His sacrifice meant she had to fight for herself.
Think, Kayla
.
Keep her talking
.
Keep her talking while you think your way out of this mess
. “Do you really think I’d go to the police about this? Do you really think my sense of justice is so strong I’d bring shame to my own family? Gabe’s morals were stronger than mine. I wouldn’t tell a soul.” The words were spilling from her mouth, and they tasted dirty.
“I’m sorry, Kayla,” Iris said, walking toward her. Her voice softened. “But I know you. I know you couldn’t live with yourself if you kept that secret. It would rot inside you, like it has your father.”
“Living with the secret, with the lies . . . that’s better than not living at all. Even I know that,” Kayla said, with a lot more assurance than she truly felt.
Iris wavered. Kayla saw it. And as she wavered, something flashed in the corner of Kayla’s eyes. Lights.
Both women turned to look out of the window. It was evening now, and the sky alight with blue and red flashing lights. Police cars. Coming up the driveway.
“How? I . . . how?” Iris stuttered, staring at Mark accusingly.
He looked as confused and terrified as she did.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway.
August 2, England
T
HE PO
LICE STATION
in north Northumberland was worlds away from the one in Phuket where Kayla had fallen apart less than two months ago.
It was clean, clinical, devoid of personality. The floors were covered in plain linoleum, the walls painted an unassuming shade of builder’s white. The officers were professional, formal, and most sympathetic toward Kayla. That was the key difference: Kayla was no longer being treated as a suspect. Everyone was finally behaving like she was a victim, which, in more ways than one, she was.
She hadn’t yet had time to process how the police knew what was happening at Berry Hill. It wasn’t high on the list of agonizing facts to work through.
Like the fact that Gabe had known. He knew everything.
Her stomach cramped painfully.
Had he ever tried to tell her? Protect her from this dark, dark secret?
The night in Dad’s study
.
When he sat there, paralyzed, and I asked if I could help
.
And he said no
.
He told me to leave
.
He had never tried to protect her.
A tall, lanky junior officer with a weak chin and pale face peppered with angry pink pimples approached Kayla. She was in a small room off to the side of the interrogation room where Iris was being held. This room too was strangely empty. There was a handful of the kind of fabric-covered metal seats you’d find in a village hall, a small plastic table holding a coffee machine and a rather pathetic-looking potted plant, and the lingering smell of new paint that stung her nostrils. A geriatric TV set bolted to the top corner of the white walls blinked and flickered on mute.
The young man looked uncomfortable. Kayla assumed he was new to the job, though even the most experienced officer was bound to find this tangled web of interfamily homicide deeply disturbing. “Miss Finch, hi. My name is Paul Mecklenburgh. How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know. I just found out that my nan killed my brother and my dad facilitated the whole thing. Oh, and they’re behind several domestic terrorist attacks over the last few months. So I’m doing good, thanks.”
Paul didn’t seem to register the thick sarcasm. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Can I get you anything? A tea or coffee?”
What is this? A hairdressing salon?
“N-No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“All right, well let me know if that changes. We might be here awhile—we’ll need to take your statement, but I’m not sure when that’ll be. You have reliable evidence to support you, though, in the form of the CCTV recordings, so it shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
The CCTV recordings
.
Of course
. “Okay, thanks.” Paul turned to leave the room, but before he approached the door, Kayla blurted out, “Actually, there is one thing.”
“Yes, Miss Finch?”
“Can I go and talk to my nan?” Kayla swallowed. “I know that’s not really standard procedure. I just . . . I really want to ask her a few things. Now that she isn’t threatening to kill me, and all.”
Paul looked uncertain. “Well . . .”
“Please?” Kayla adopted a voice as weak and watery as the tea in Thailand, playing up the poor victim act.
Paul chewed his lip. “Let me see what I can do.”
I
RIS
F
INCH L
OOKED
older than she ever had. Her shoulders slumped and her skin had developed an ashen tinge.
Kayla had expected to walk into the room, sit down in front of her grandmother and ask her, matter-of-factly, everything she wanted to know. How she’d fooled them all for so long, was she ever really the kindhearted woman Kayla had grown up to know, whether she regretted any of it. Whether justice and shame was a powerful enough threat that she’d consider permanently silencing her own granddaughter.
Instead, Kayla sat down in the hard plastic chair, took one look at the broken woman in front of her, and burst into tears. And not calm, elegant drops rolling down her cheeks. Her gasps and gulps were frantic, uncontrollable. A horrendous six months finally surfacing.
“Kayla . . .” Iris said, her chin wobbling.
“How could you do this? What kind of person does it take to murder anyone, let alone a blood relative? An innocent blood relative? Sweet, lovely Gabe . . . you slit his wrists, for fuck’s sake! How could you do that? How could you see the pain in his eyes, the fear, and keep slicing through his skin, his veins? You’re a monster—”
“Kayla—”
“No! Don’t you dare speak to me. You killed my brother, you killed the man I loved, and you were about to kill me too—”
“What did you—?”
“How could you do that? I genuinely can’t wrap my head around it, how anyone could be so evil—”
“KAYLA!” The sharp tone of Iris’s voice stopped Kayla in mid-rant.
“What? What could you possibly have to say to me? Other than an apology that will never make any of this okay?”
Iris frowned. “Did you say the man you fell in love with?”
“Yes. Sam. The man you sent to spy on me, the man I accidentally fell in love with, and the man you killed as a result. Ring any bells?”
Iris shook her head slowly. “No. Not really. The person I sent to spy on you, to join the Escaping Grey group . . . she was a girl.”
Not for the first time that day, Kayla’s heart stopped. “A girl?”
“Yes. Ai Ling something.”
