Hidden Secrets

By Fox Andrew

Oxford is hot on the trail to find out who killed his ex-wife.

There are a number of dead ends that don't pan out. Then he discovers the best-kept secret. A secret he wasn't expecting.

He is caught up in the excitement that he overlooks a vital piece of evidence that could make a killer go free.

Trust no one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Jan 14, 2022

Book preview

Chapter 1

Arthurs Point, July 2015

The man pacing back and forth outside my office looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I consciously felt the outline of the semi-automatic belt holster under my jacket. I’d been out all morning, only stopping by the office to check if there were any messages before heading out again, as it was my secretary Gretchen’s day off.

I finally recognised him. Scott Samson. I’d attended his trial twelve years earlier, when he was convicted of murdering my ex-wife, Wilma Radcliffe, a psychiatrist at Harrow Psychiatric Hospital. Scott had been in his mid-twenties then, with black hair and steely grey eyes. He’d be about thirty-eight now, I calculated. His hair had thinned a little and there were streaks of grey running through it, and his lean body had filled out somewhat. Guess that’s what twelve years of prison food does to you, I thought. Despite the usual signs of ageing, his time inside had left no physical scars — no visible ones anyway. I said nothing, and opened the door to let him in.

Do you know who I am? he asked.

I looked him squarely in the eyes. Keeping my voice devoid of emotion, I stated, You’re Scott Samson. You were a patient of my ex-wife Wilma’s when she worked at Harrow, and you became her lover. You were convicted of murdering her, for which you have just spent the last twelve years in prison. Obviously, you have just been released. How am I doing so far?

Scott scrutinised me before replying, So you do remember me, even though you and Wilma were divorced when she died?

I wasn’t offended by his pointless statement. Sure, Wilma was my ex-wife, but she was also the mother of our child. I walked over to my desk and threw my jacket over the back of my chair, took my gun from my belt holster and put it in my jacket pocket. Whisky?

Scott nodded and sat down hesitantly. As he felt the soft leather of the chair, he relaxed a little. I pulled a bottle of Johnnie Walker out of the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. I had spent the morning tying up ends on a case and needed a drink badly – and it looked as though he did too. He sat in silence, aimlessly twisting a thick silver ring around the middle finger of his right hand.

When were you released from prison? I asked casually.

Couple of weeks ago. I’m on six months’ parole.

What’s it feel like being on the outside?

I’d rather be outside than inside. Scott shifted his weight in the leather chair. It feels great to be free but if I had to, I could still survive on the inside, no matter what.

I retrieved two glasses from a drawer in my desk. I handed one to Scott and left the other in front of me, filling each glass halfway. Scott nodded thanks and took a slow sip, then another, then swigged the remainder. I downed mine in one gulp.

Boy, did I miss this, Scott sighed. I refilled his glass. I know you’ve heard me say this before, not that it did me much good, he continued, but I’ll say it again; I didn’t kill Wilma. And now... he paused and took a deep breath, "I want you to find out who did."

I was puzzled. Why wait all this time? You could have lodged an appeal or started an investigation while you were in prison.

I know, but I was denied access to the court documents. I protested vigorously but my requests always fell on deaf ears. It was as if no-one wanted me to prove my innocence because finding the real killer would be too much of a headache.

We sipped our whisky in silence for a moment.

I’ve maintained my innocence for the last twelve years, Oxford. I tried so hard to prove someone else murdered Wilma, but no-one believed me. From the moment I was arrested, my life as I knew it was over. Now I want justice — and some closure. I want to put this all behind me once and for all and get on with my life, but I can’t as long as the real killer’s still out there.

Scott was clearly a shattered man who had all but lost hope of clearing his name. Could I help him find the real killer twelve years down the track? It was doubtful. More importantly, should I? At the time of his trial, I had assumed he was guilty and wanted to see him go down for Wilma’s murder, just like everyone else. But the fact he was here wanting to hire me, his murder victim’s ex-husband, to find the real killer – and more importantly, my gut – told me Scott was telling the truth. Hadn’t the police checked his alibi the night Wilma died? Despite my background in law, I had little trust and certainly no faith in the justice system. Another poor bastard convicted on flimsy evidence.

So after twelve years, you want me to gather new evidence somehow, clear your name and put the real murderer behind bars, just like that?

Scott took another swig from his glass and placed it gently down on the desk. Exactly. Look, I was a patient of Wilma’s for only six months. My girlfriend Amy suggested I seek help for my temper. I was a sort of Jekyll and Hyde; one moment I’d be fine, then I would just lose it. At first, Wilma was very understanding and I admit, we ended up having a fling. I didn’t know about her drug problem until later, when I heard gossip around the hospital. Still, I never expected her to do what she did, and I never forgave her for it.

What do you mean you never forgave her for what she did? I asked.

She had me put in a padded cell for six weeks. According to the Crown’s case, that’s why I killed her. Don’t you remember? Scott said, standing up abruptly. He placed both his hands on my desk and leaned forward. Look, they wanted a quick conviction and I was an easy suspect. He took a moment to compose himself. I’ve just spent the last twelve years locked up with an assortment of killers, rapists and perverts. Either you’re capable of killing someone or you’re not. Most of the men I was inside with were definitely capable of murder, but not me, Oxford. When Wilma died, we weren’t sleeping together anymore. I was more concerned about her other patients and how she was treating them. The drugs were making her crazy.

Is that why you began following her? I asked, reluctantly dragging details of the trial from a dark recess in my brain.

In the beginning, I did. I found out who was supplying her with drugs. Ironically, it was a guy I went to school with; a real low life. I tried telling this to the police when I was arrested, but they didn’t want to know; they thought I was making it all up.

I went to refill Scott’s glass, but he put his hand over it. No thanks, I’ve had enough. Look, Oxford, I know it looks like I killed her out of spite for what she did to me, but it’s just not true. Now I just want to get on with my life and hopefully rebuild my relationship with Amy.

"Well, who do you think killed Wilma?" I asked, putting away the whisky bottle.

No idea. I’m sure quite a few people wanted to. She seemed to upset everyone and there were some strange characters working at Harrow. Some of them gave me the creeps, to be honest.

Why me? There are plenty of other PIs...

By this time, Scott had begun to pace up and down the small office. I went to the police and asked if they would re-open my case, but they said no. I came across your name in a letter that Amy sent me while I was still in prison. She told me that she had written to you about looking into my case when I was released. Did you get a letter from her?

I nodded. Er, yes I did, about four months ago. I suddenly felt guilty as I recalled I had not taken the letter seriously, giving it to my secretary to file in the ‘non-action’ (AKA ‘waste of time’) folder. I leaned back in my chair and watched Scott take a file out of a thin black attaché case. He tapped the cover of it.

In here is all the information I have that relates to my case and Wilma’s death. He slid it across the polished surface of my desk; it came to rest next to the photo of my daughter, Emily.

What about the detective in charge of the case; Max Jarvis, wasn’t it?

Somehow I don’t think he’ll be interested in helping you clear my name. It will just cause more problems as he’ll have to re-open the case. Anyway, I’ve done my time now, so what would he care?

I studied Scott closely. He seemed forthright and honest, and what he said made sense — he just might be innocent after all. God knows, Wilma had been a difficult woman at the best of times. If Scott were guilty, why would he want to go through all the pain of dragging everything up again? His debt to society had been paid. Other than the remaining six months’ parole, he was effectively wiped from the books.

Let me think about it, I said. I’ll contact you later this afternoon and let you know.

I have some money. Whatever it takes. Tucking the attaché case under his arm, he stood in front of my desk, as if he was reluctant to leave.

I don’t want to take this case and end up going over old ground, Scott. Even if we find out who the real killer was, we have to make it stick like glue, and after all this time that could be a problem. I’ll get Max to let me check the police files on the case and see where we stand. I looked at the front of the file. A mobile number was written on the front. Is this the number where I can reach you?

Yes, Scott said. He looked down at me with barely disguised relief in his eyes. I stood up and we shook hands