14
Confessions
Lance
Across London, at the police station that evening, Lance sat in a drab room.
“Lance, could you please answer the question.” Dunne didn’t blink. “What was, or currently is, your connection to Chelsea Jackson?”
Lance looked from Dunne to McDonald. He wiped his brow and squinted under the harsh overhead lights.
“Like I said, she was just a customer at my garage. And one thing led to another.”
“You admit the affair then?” Dunne pressed.
“Well, of course, you’ve got us on tape.”
“So, when her boyfriend turned up stabbed to death with his eyes gauged out, you claim to know nothing about it,” McDonald cut in.
“That’s right.” Lance turned to McDonald. “I know nothing about that.”
McDonald smirked, then pressed play on the remote.
Lance listened to his and Chelsea’s private conversation, the one where she told him Tony had changed his will in her favour, and the colour drained from his face.
McDonald cut the recording, leaned across the table, then looked Lance dead in the eye. “So, how do you explain that then?” He nodded to the CD player.
“Fuck, it wasn’t anything to do with me, all right, it was her idea.” Lance held his palms up in defence. “She tried to put me up to it.”
“Up to what, Lance?” McDonald cross checked.
Lance seethed, he held McDonald’s eye contact and watched him lean back in his chair, confident, cocky, and with a grin on his face. It was as if the detective was satisfied with the direction the interview was headed. It took everything he had not to lose his shit at the path McDonald had opened up for him to walk down and hang himself on.
“She wanted him dead, she even offered me money.” Lance glanced away from McDonald’s intense gaze, his blue eyes bored into him, penetrating every nerve ending he had.
“When was this?” McDonald pressed.
“About a week after we had that conversation.” Lance nodded in the direction of the CD player. “I said no, of course.”
“But you still planned to skip the country with her and use his money. What stopped you?”
“He turned up dead, sooner than we had thought.”
“Why did she come to you?” Dunne leaned in, keeping him in full view.
“Who else could she ask? Without drawing suspensions to herself, I’m the only person she could trust. Plus, she knew I had connections.”
“Connections?” Dunne questioned.
“Yeah, but like I said, I never wanted to get involved.”
“Where were you on the tenth of August?” McDonald asked.
Lance slumped back in his chair.
Shit, he thought to himself. He racked his brain for a suitable alibi.
“I was at work, all day, then went home as usual.”
“Did you see Chelsea?”
“This was three months ago.” Lance threw his hands up in the air. “Maybe, yeah. I can’t remember.”
“We’ll let you think about it a while—here in the holding cell,” Dunne said.
“Wait, you can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything.”
“Lance, you’re being held on suspicion of the murder of Tony Patel. Your admission to being approached as hitman by Chelsea Jackson needs further looking into. He’s murder was a cold case, unsolved.” Dunne rose to his feet. “Now, we have an open case and evidence to answer to.”
Lance flinched at his words.
Dunne rounded the table, then pulled out his cuffs.
“Looks like were done for now.” McDonald cut the interview recording.
Moments later, Lance was literally shoved into the cell by a uniformed officer—handcuffs and all. The heavy metal door slammed shut, and the keys turn in the lock.
Lance banged on the door of the cell.
“Oi, you can’t do this,” he protested. “I never done anything.”
There was no response. It was so quiet, he could hear a pin drop.
With clenched fists and narrowed eyes, he glared at the door, willing it to open. He knew there was no chance. Turning around slowly, he took in his surroundings—the holding cell was tiny, cold, and stunk of stale body odour.
He wrinkled his nose and dragged himself over to the bed. The mattress was so thin when he sat, he felt the metal slats of the bedframe.
Resting his elbows on his knees, he thought back to Chelsea, and the shit she landed him in. John was one thing, he could try to handle him if he had to, he’d leave London and start over elsewhere, if he couldn’t repay him—wouldn’t be the first he’d disappeared. But prison for murder was something he couldn’t run from.
An officer slid back the small peep-hole window.
The noise startled him out of his daydream.
Two eyes stared back at him, then the window slid back.
“Great, what is this? Suicide watch? Not even been in here an hour yet.”
He reclined on the hard mattress. Sliding his hands behind his head, he casually crossed his legs over at his ankles and frowned at the yellow ceiling. Almost six months ago when he met Chelsea, he took their paths crossing for what it was—a chance to get to know her and regular sex.
His feelings toward her never developed beyond physical need until he realised she was an heir in waiting. The answer to all his prayers and debt. He was aware she was seeing Tony, and it didn’t bother him. He had no idea who the man was, but soon learned after one of his Indian restaurants won a culinary award.
Chelsea had boasted to him about it. He realised then just how wealthy she would ultimately be, if there was any truth in her news that Tony had named her as his sole beneficiary. So, he had hung around to see the fruits of his labour—playing the other man she would build a life with—would pan out.
Hell, he even entertained her ideas about being a painter, gave her sex on demand, and tried to enjoy what little they had in common.
Not much at all, nothing in common, he mused, then chuckled. Except in the bedroom. He laughed to himself again.
“Yeah, she’s got a wild streak all right.”
He cast his mind back to
